Playback
by the corrupted quiet one
Summary: Kenny's always listened pop music, with its bumping beats, simple lyrics, and easiness at capturing the complexities of love. Sometimes he feels himself in those songs, especially when pining over Kyle Broflovski. But one day, his music decides to stop playing quietly, and start blasting out of his head. Oh, baby, baby, how was he supposed to know? Kenny/Kyle.
1. (You Drive Me) Crazy

Kenny's always loved pop, the bouncy bubblegum shit so saccharine it nauseates, but so goddamn catchy it sticks. Maybe it's the beat, some addicting quality in the songs' rhythm, or maybe it's the lyrics, simplistic on the surface but inspiring feelings far more profound. Or maybe he just has a bad case of nostalgia, repeating the artists who made up his childhood. He unironically listened to boy bands and girl groups, jamming out to Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls. He likes Beyoncé leading Destiny's Child, prefers Justin's days heading *NSYNC, misses when Christina Aguilera did more than judge singing competitions. But none of them compare to the princess turned queen, the girl whose hits he fell in love with, the first ass he ever wanted to stick his dick in: the one and only, Miss Britney Spears.

Yeah, the guys still make fun of him for it, remind him how much of a _queer-mo_ stereotype he is, but Kenny doesn't care. They can talk all the shit they want about him, so long as they don't take the _Holy Spearit_ in vain. The only one who still does is Cartman, though, but Kenny knows he's still bitter about her and Timberlake splitting up. Stan just rolls his eyes, Kenny's tastes too mainstream for his alternative palette, while Kyle stares bemused, somewhere between impressed and baffled by Kenny's encyclopaedic knowledge. All they really ask is he keep his music at a reasonable volume, and, _for fuck's sake_ , resist singing along. Kenny may not mind humming "…Baby One More Time", but the rest of them sure as shit do. He gets it— _really, he does_ —if Stan went off to "All the Small Things," he'd be begging for an _enema of the brain_. Kenny is totally fine with putting on his headphones, having the music on low, and letting that sweet kitten voice play in the background while he goes about his day. Besides, he can still bob his head along to whatever song shuffle play chooses, and, if the mood truly tempts him, he can mouth out the chorus while Cartman and Kyle threaten to tear each other's throats out. It's no big deal.

His phone battery sits at a measly thirteen percent, though, which is a relatively big deal. Kenny had it plugged in all day without realising the cord was busted, met with an unpleasant surprise when he popped in his earbuds. Though he usually relies on his music, its stimulation keeping his attention from wandering too much, he can't bleed his power dry, not when he and the guys are hitting the town. Okay, in a pissant town like South Park, an _evening of debauchery_ only translates to a tepid bar crawl, nothing _that_ exciting. But Kenny doesn't want his phone dead if Karen shoots him a text, whether it's in case of emergency or requesting an update on where he'd be sleeping. And, without his precious playlists, he must endure the plethora of drab and boring noises making up the world, assaulting him with a barrage of dull distractions, a hundred annoying mosquitos all buzzing in his head.

They meet at the park, long after the average kid's bedtime, temporarily taking over the abandoned pirate slides and lonely jungle gyms. Kenny sits on the swing, like always, but only now notices how often the rusting chains screech, how they whine and shriek. He forces his attention elsewhere, or at least tries to, glaring at his feet as they burrow into the mulch padding, toeing aside dark woodchips, carving into the packed dirt. He tries, but the bushes still rustle, raccoons or stray cats moving unseen, the conifers' branches still creak with every soft gust of wind. Or maybe a bird will flap its wings, barrelling from perch to perch, or a car will chirr as it zooms down the street, like a damned screaming cicada. Most people ignore the din of the everyday—can filter it out unconsciously—but Kenny's mind always grabs on, hastily trading one sound for another and another and another, jumping around too _freaking_ much and destroying any sense of concentration. The buds sit settled in his ears, and he bites the inside of his cheek in bitterness, wishing some background track could drown out the ambience he so detests. To stave off the deadly mix of boredom and irritation, Kenny lets his eyes wander, in search of some distraction from this latest lull, from the dreary and the droning.

His gaze falls on Stan, leaning against the basketball hoop, killing time on his phone with a stupid freemium card game. Dark blue eyes stare unblinking at a tiny screen, and Kenny envies his focus, his complete absorption in real-time player-versus-player matches. He usually spends his off-time grinding for booster packs, partly as a time killer, but mostly because Wendy forbade him from blowing their credit on a dumb phone app. Stan bites his lip, brows furrowing, obviously locked in an intense battle with some user in Korea or Guam or Venezuela. Kenny considers interrupting him, sparking up some temporary conversation, give himself some reprieve. But Stan gets _pissy_ when he loses, and Kenny knows a drunken Stan would _rip_ _on_ him _mercilessly_ for costing the _deciding_ point in _overtime_ , so he rules against it.

Eyes flit to Cartman, standing with his back turned, in the middle of a heated call with his supposed ex-girlfriend. Out of all useless noises in the world, Eric Cartman's grating and insufferable voice is the only one Kenny can tune out consistently, a skill cultivated over many years of jeers and insults. He waves an arm frantically, yelling at poor Heidi Turner on the other end of the line, showering her with unnecessary emotional abuse to maintain his fragile sense of dominance. Cartman is probably explaining, in excruciating detail, how he'll kill himself within the next ten minutes if she doesn't take his sorry ass back, even though he'd sooner suffer mild alcohol poisoning than take a knife to his wrists. Few things on God's green earth can stop Cartman in the heat of a tirade, and Kenny knows he isn't one of them. And, as much as he hates standing by, he knows that anything he does can and will blow up in his face, just as it has for every other person who's tried in vain to save beauty from the foulest of beasts.

Kenny looks up to the lamppost, to the warm incandescence flushing out the stars, the beacon luring nocturnal bugs into a cruel loop of fascination and pain. Those goddamn retard bugs, he thinks, swarming around something so tantalising, so enthralling, only to be rejected by the ruthless hot glass, singing their delicate wings as they yearn fruitlessly for the dazzling light. But they keep trying, because insect brains are too small to know better, to realise they'll never have what they seek, to accept the facts and move on from their cravings. They think the same way hopeless, horny people do, when they spend nights _aching_ for someone they'll never have, jerk their dicks _raw_ over someone they'll never screw. Kenny understands their plight, well acquainted with the sadomasochist cycle of lust and longing. But, while the simple-minded moths worship their streetlight, Kenny pines for a full-blown _spitfire_ , with green eyes and crimson curls, with a sharp tongue and a mean southpaw, with quick wit and genuine _chutzpah_.

Kyle has shown up late two weeks in a row, both times attributed to some Isiah on Tinder, reacclimating to the whole _dating_ scene. Kenny _should_ be happy for him, considering how long Kyle spent recovering from his last long-term, refusing a repeat of Craig Tucker and his serial two-timing, worrying that his cheating reflected something wrong with Kyle. Of course, he also should have been happy when Kyle told him that he and Craig were _together_ , instead of gulping down cigarette ash and giving Kyle the _fakest_ of fake smiles. Hell, Kenny _should've_ been happy when he went out for a few weeks with David, or when he had an on-and-off stint with Token, or when he hooked up with the sketchy French guy who digs holes in the woods and _never fucking bathes_. But it _hurts_ to _pretend_ , that he isn't jealous, that he isn't cursing every last one of them for heartbreak they'll bring Kyle, that he isn't resigning to an argyle cum-sock at the end of the day thinking of that voice calling him _boyfriend_ and those lips kissing him _deep 'n dirty_.

But, after _years_ of their friendship studded with cheeky pick-up lines, of their casual talks brimming with teasing banter, of their devolutions into blatant and outright flirting, Kenny has come to one simple conclusion: Kyle Broflovski is either completely and utterly _oblivious_ or is _just_ _not interested_. And, considering how _super ridiculously_ smart Kyle is, Kenny doubts his romantics have gone unnoticed, only solidly _unrequited_.

Reciprocated or not, though, Kyle remains one of Kenny's best friends, among the most cherished people in his life, and he can live with that. Sure, his bug brain won't stop whirling around those luminous fantasies, but he'll hold on to what he has—what they have—even if it means flying wilfully in and out of an open flame, even if in the process he burns to a brittle blackened crisp. He bets most people would call him insane for thinking that way, but, truthfully, Kyle makes him too happy to give up on.

God, he really is _crazy_ , huh?

Some fag on a motorcycle tears down the street, cries of a shrieking Harley ringing in Kenny's ears. He blinks, grinds his teeth at the engine's echo, damning the mountains for their remarkable acoustics. The sounds volley between the cliffsides, diluting each time, welcoming a new cacophony. Rubber soles scuffle on crumbling asphalt, Stan emerging the winner, dancing in his digital victory, momentarily forgetting the park is a public venue. He lets out a thankful sigh— _whoo!—_ and takes his first real breath in twenty whole seconds. Thick skin thumps against grooved bark, Cartman's temper flaring, punching the nearest tree in anger, as if a violent tantrum bolsters his case. He rasps a grizzled threat into the receiver— _Screw you, bitch, I'm doing it!_ —and hangs up only person who might actually care about him. Both of them add to the unbearable clamour, loud and obnoxious without even touching a drink.

 _Fuck_ , does Kenny need one _soon_. Maybe _five_ to be safe.

Cartman grumbles unintelligibly, dragging his feet as he turns to face Kenny and Stan. Kenny can hear every moist clump of cheese dust and jagged hunk of potato chip lodged in his throat. Stan taps rapidly, nail hitting the screen as he clears out his pack spoils. His finger pokes at Kenny's brain with each unveiling of common and rare characters. Then, Stan swipes out, just as Cartman steps onto the concrete trim. He sways unsteadily, poor sense of balance further sabotaged by his excess weight, but maintains his footing, and Stan tucks his phone in his pocket. He jangles his house keys, rattles them mercilessly, and rolls his head in their direction, popping some bone in the process. Kenny feels the headphone cord brush against his neck, mocking him. _Stupid low battery_.

"Dumb bitch thinks she can _break up_ with _me_ ," Cartman says snidely, ready to air his grievances as though he has support. The truth is no one can get rid of him, all attempts the boys have made in establishing distance backfiring spectacularly. The only reason he still gets invited is because he gets surprisingly generous while in a drunken stupor, which all three of them love to exploit. He tongues the corner of his mouth, and beings walking along the slender wall. He breathes unevenly, treating the length as precarious tightrope, "She'll be back."

"Dude, you _gotta_ stop this shit with Heidi," Stan's voice strains, tinged with a combination of sadness and defeat. His lines are scripted, repeating the same tired admonishments over and over, knowing full well that Cartman will never change. But rather than waste his energy yelling at him, he stomachs Cartman's sob stories, listens to him call Heidi a cunt and abuser, because the only way this will end is for Heidi to decide so herself. He takes a step from the pole, punctuated with soft _clinks_ , "If you don't _like_ her, don't _be_ _with_ her."

"You don't get it," Whenever he scoffs, he wrinkles his nose into a pig's snout, "'Cause you're Wendy's _lil_ _whipping boy_."

Stan rolls his eyes, and glances to Kenny. The two trade knowing looks, and brace for Cartman's latest rant. Stan shoves his hands in his jacket pocket, and turns his eyes to the muted sky, staring blankly at the constellations until a rogue meteor shuts Cartman up. Of course, he can just zone out, probably assumes Kenny already has something on to help with that too. But, luck for Kenny, he must resort to more desperate attempts at mental playback, in hopes he can literally think over the auditory garbage littering the air. Kenny licks his lips, files through his memory, and picks a song at random.

"But the rest of us guys who aren't flaming homos like _Kahl_ or _Kinny_ gotta do the real work! We gotta discipline our women so they get that they can still be lame-o Ghostbusters if they want but know who's in _charge_."

The third single off her debut album, "(You Drive Me) Crazy" is one Britney's earlier masterpieces. She spans her voice over an entire octave and flawlessly integrates the tragically underused cowbell. While she's since grown as an artist, Kenny does have a soft spot for her pre-millennia work. Plus, the song strikes him as fitting, though he can't entirely place how.

"Heidi just needs to understand that she can't keep manipulating me with her bullshit fairy-tales of the truth. I mean, what kind of psycho monster does that shit?"

Kenny shuts his eyes, exhales slowly. His anxious kicking tapers out, diverting everything into recreating the rhythm. Bells open up the number, with synthesisers establishing a beat. His tongue taps the roof of his mouth, at each cowbell clang, count him through the warm-up, up to the start of the first verse.

"I'm the only one who can deal with it, Stan! And I'm here tryin' to help her so she breaks out of this vicious loop of deception before she gets to Jew levels of tricky fake backstabbing."

She drawls out her signature _baby_ , the word synonymous with her soft, dulcet voice. The lyrics end in rhymes and paint a clear picture. No, not the one provided by the music video, when she starts dressed as fifties waitress, then switches to a metallic green tube top more appropriate for the industrial warehouse dance club scene; she sings about love all-consuming, captivated by someone who inspires powerful emotion, in a way that should be maddening, but in the end feels _all right_.

"It's my God-given responsibility, man. I mean, it is our _masculine_ _duty_ to train these hoes! It's fuckin' Shakespeare, dude! _Taming of the Shrew_?"

Footsteps approach, but Kenny stays invested in the words. He starts mouthing along, syncing up with the tune in his head, lips forming shapes and lines as he silently approaches the chorus. Then, in a whisper the wind greedily swallows: _You drive me craaa-zy_.

"If your dumb ass read _anything_ in high school," Kyle's voice cuts the air, sharp tone announcing his arrival. Kenny opens his eyes, sees Kyle standing just a few feet away on the sidewalk, under the streetlamp's glow. Green eyes glare coldly at Cartman, in a call to arms, ready for yet another round against his lifelong nemesis, "You'd know it was a _satire_ on gender politics in marriage and Katerina's closing speech was _sarcastic_."

Cartman spins around, nearly tumbles from his platform. He catches himself, though, brown eyes burning as they fall on Kyle. Of all things in the universe, Kyle stands the only force capable of combatting the scum that is Eric Cartman. Kenny leans in, as the music plays on, licking his lips in anticipation, for the sweet and beautiful moment when Kyle puts that _dibshit_ in his place.

"Well, _well_ ," Cartman gingerly hops down, feet thumping on a patch of matted grass, "Look who _finally_ decided to grace us with his _noble_ presence," He takes long, methodical strides, a predator stalk. He puffs himself up, a peacock strutting, even straightening his posture just to solidify the few inches he has on Kyle, "Did you remember the little people or did Tinder-fuck finally get bored of you?"

"I _overslept_ ," Kyle says, unfazed, unyielding, "I had to take a nap after work since— _shocker_ —some of us have _jobs_ and don't still live with our _moms_."

When arguing, he has the judicial tact of a courtroom veteran and clinical precision of a renowned surgeon. He could kill a man with words alone, his tone a sharp blade to the throat, his tongue made of silver and lined with venom. And, while that frightens a good lot of people, Kenny considers it _incredibly_ sexy. Okay, a little scary, too, but in the _still-feeling-dick-tingles_ sort of way.

" _AYE!_ " Cartman yells, face scrunching. He leans in, invading Kyle's personal space, even bringing an accusing finger along to point in his face, "I am _supporting_ my _ageing mother_ like a _good son_. You'd fucking _know that_ if you weren't _whoring your ass_ out like the _slutty_ _Jew you are_."

Kyle says nothing, just raises his hands. He places either palm on Cartman's sternum and, without blinking, shoves. Cartman peddles back, trips, and falls. His ass hits the sidewalk with a resounding _thud_ , and Stan lets out a staccato chuckle. Kenny watches a sly smirk tease at the corner of Kyle's lips, and he feels his heart _throb_.

"At least I've never _blackmailed_ someone into _fucking_ me," He says, blood dripping from his voice, inflicting his killing blow. He looms over Cartman, casting his shadow over him, adding nonchalant, "And Isiah lives in New York, it was _never_ gonna work."

Kenny watches Kyle's eyes change, shed their savage glint, take on softer sheen. He indulges in his victories, but never for too long, respectfully prideful and never anything more. Kyle's eyes flit, first to Stan, then to Kenny, embers kindling within. Kyle can be ruthless, and Kyle can be warm, can be one of the most compassionate and empathetic people Kenny has ever known. Kenny feels just like the reprise, feels like _loving you means so much more_ , and _more than anything I ever felt before_.

 _Crazy_ , Kyle drives him _crazy_.

Kenny feels a smile widen on his face, and, yeah, it _feels_ _all right_.

[ _ **You drive me**_ _ **craaaa-zy**_ _!_ ]

" _Dude_ ," Stan's gaze flickers to Kenny, eyeing him suspiciously. He's made his way from the edge of the court to the other side of the swing set, but stopped, distracted evidently by Kenny. A black brow lifts, dark blue questioning, "Turn that _down_ or you're gonna go _deaf_."

" _Huh?"_

[ _I just_ _ **can't sleep**_ _!_ ]

Oh, _right_ , the song, probably playing through his headphones again. The second chorus blares while Kenny leans back, swinging forward as he fishes in his pocket. He uses the cord as a reel, pulling the phone into reach, then hoisting it from the depths of his jeans. As he regrips the sleek curved edges, though, he can't recall turning _on_ his phone, only how much he wanted to conserve his precious battery. It must have gone on by accident…

Kenny lifts the screen to his face, taps the black screen to life. A vividly coloured portrait of Princess Zelda greets him, the Hylian ruler regally posed with the Master Sword drawn, wearing her _Twilight Princess_ gown. Above her in thin white font is the time and date, with no other banner indicating a music app open. In the top right corner, his battery sits empty save for a thin red sliver, percentage only down to twelve. He sees no indication of use, intentional or otherwise, but the music still plays.

 _[I'm so_ _ **excited**_ _! I'm_ _ **in too deep**_ _!]_

In his head.

 _[_ _ **Craaaaa-zy**_ _! But it_ _ **feels**_ _ **all right**_ _!]_

No, _out_ of his head.

 _[Baby,_ _ **thinking of you**_ _keeps me_ _ **up all night**_ _!]_

Playing _very loudly._

Kenny's eyes widen, as the surreal nature of the situation sinks in. True, weird stuff happens in South Park all the time, finding a folksy charm in the batshit and bizarre. But when a portal opens to the Spooky dimension or a spaceship of grey Visitors flies overhead, there's a vague explanation. Hell, he can accept the Towelie being a sentient pothead dishrag and the Crab People dwelling deep beneath the sewer system. But this?

What _is_ this?!

Stan peers over, unsure why Kenny hasn't lowered the volume, trying to look at his screen. Kenny is quick with the buttons, though, plunging his princess back into darkness, in need of far more than an ocarina to salvage his timeline. He jams the phone back in his pocket, pointedly staring at his two mulch trenches. Maybe, if he directs all his attention somewhere else, the song will stop. Kenny can't hear the other minor noises of the world, and for the first time in his life he wishes he could.

"God, really, _Kinny_?" Cartman bellows, peeling himself off the ground. Kenny looks up, as Cartman sloppily beats dirt from denim, only to be ensnared in irate brown. Annoyance and irritation permeate his gaze, assuring Kenny that _he hears it_ too. Cartman shakes his head, tacking on a patronising sneer, "Quit blowin' your ears out, _Baby Driver_ , no one wants to join your vintage tween wet dream."

Kenny looks away, evading Cartman's corrosive grimace, only to find solace in Kyle's green. _Kyle_ , he thinks, he can't hear this. He _can't_ , because if he _can_ , then Kenny's already microscopic chances are _gone_ — _Poof!_ _Done-zo_. Kenny's already poor, an idiot, a descendant of a long long line of white trash; he doesn't need to add being a _freak_. No, Kyle can't hear it; he can't, he can't, he just _can't_.

Kyle shoots Cartman a dirty look, as the bridge begins, and, for a moment, Kenny thinks he really can't hear it. He latches on to the momentary hope, pleads with God grant him one blessing; _please, please, pleeease_. Then, Kyle turns his head, looks over to Kenny, and snuffs out his prayers. When their eyes lock—brilliant green and sky blue—Kenny feels something, feels it intensify, _amplify_.

[ _ **Crazy**_ _… But it_ _ **feels all right**_ _…_ ]

The goddamn _music_ — _FUCK_ —Kyle made it _louder_.

No, _Kyle is making it louder_.

[ _Every_ _ **day**_ _and every_ _ **nih-iiiight**_ _…]_

Kenny smiles, using his dopey grin as desperate defence. But his shield crumbles, lips pulled too tightly, teeth showing too much, leaving him _mortified_ and _pathetic_. Britney's voice flutters, airy in repeat, and Kenny's heart thumps, pounding to the beat. He wishes he could choke right there, down his mawkish, mushy feelings like a cyanide capsule, and die escaping those eyes. But he can't; he can only watch Kyle tilt his head, lift a brow, and stare back.

Oh, he is _so_ screwed.

"Dude, I can hear that from _here_ ," Kyle says, concerned, but for more mundane reasons. He looks at Kenny and worries about noise-induced hearing loss, about acute tinnitus due to acoustic trauma, about things that happen normally and don't involve the human brain mimicking a surround sound stereo. His body shifts, threatening to take a step forward, "Turn it _off_."

 _Turn it off_ , he says. _Or I will_ , his tone adds.

That tickling in Kenny's balls couldn't be more _in_ appropriate.

" _Relax_ , man," As he speaks, he triggers the guitar solo, deafening rifts undermining his already shaky voice. No, he can't talk his way out of this one, nothing to slick his words in a way he could slip out unscathed. Kenny stops thinking explanations, starts thinking escape. He needs to leave, get out _now,_ run back home to find the sturdiest stretch of drywall and drive his skull through it. And if that doesn't kill him, he'll dig in the pantry for some Tennessee Honey, down the whole bottle of Jack and erase this awkwardness from memory. He gulps, hard, and spits out a lie, "Phone's been wonky all day, got gunk in the buttons or s'methin'."

He has to act fast, before Kyle asks a follow-up, before Stan veers into scepticism, before Cartman calls his bluff. Kenny gets up, quickly— _too_ quickly. He lets go of the chain as he leans forward, ready to stand, but the swing belt dumps him, clumsy feet doing the rest. _Accident-prone_ is the nice term for it, but Kenny prefers _fucking_ _r-tard_. Somehow it sounds better, falling face-first into a bed of splintery woodchips, revelling in the reality of just how much the universe hates him. He hears Cartman cackle, faintly, under the melody, and he tastes dirt, earthy, on his tongue. On some cosmic level, maybe he deserved that, _maybe_.

 _[You drive me crazy! (You drive me crazy, baby!)]_

Just not now. _Really_ not now.

" _Shit,_ _Kenny_ ," Stan sputters, rushing to help, salvage the train-wreck unfolding before him. He lays a hand on Kenny's shoulder, as Kenny scrambles to his feet, frantic, frazzled. And Kenny is thankful, well aware that Stan is the only thing keeping him steady, but he can't thank him, too busy fighting for balance, feigning some semblance of composure. He knows it isn't working, alarm painting Stan's expression, sensing something _real wrong_ , but too steeped in reason to come to the actual conclusion. Kenny might be more thankful for that than anything else.

He tears out of Stan's grasp, in sweeping, stumbling strides, wordless. _Dick move_ , he thinks, walking away without so much as a nod, but he can apologise for hurting Stan's soft-boy feelings later, when his heart stops pounding a hundred-one beats per minute. Kenny doesn't brush the dirt from his jeans, too focused on following the quickest path home, on cutting through the park to the railroad and following the tracks to his ramshackle home. He keeps his eyes on his feet, unable to look anyone in the eye, and half-asses his bail, "But I can't afford burning data, better get home 'fore rackin' up a bill!"

 _[I'm so excited, I'm in too deep!]_

Kenny, however, walks straight into a hitch, ruining his own flawless getaway. Every harried step he takes increases the volume, and when he looks up, he sees Kyle standing in his way. Not on purpose, he knows, the two living in the same general direction, but it sure _feels_ intentional, like a trap designed to out his stupid, awful crush, to show the whole goddamn world how he's a total lovesick loser for Kyle Broflovski with his _smile_ and his _snark_ and his _motherfucking everything_. But Kenny moves too quickly to stop, course calculated and set, headed to pass him with the whole chorus belting. Kenny breathes in, to brace himself, and draws in the smells, of skin scented with sandalwood, of hair fragranced with malt, of breath flavoured with fresh strawberry snacks.

His heart skips.

 _[_ _ **You make me feel all right!**_ _]_

Kenny looks away, hiding his face as his cheeks ignite, blushing like an anime schoolgirl, and praying Kyle didn't see. His pace hastens, as he shoves his hands in his pockets as he darts down the path. Usually, he can hear every little thing, but he struggles tuning in behind him, even as the music eases. He thinks he hears Kyle call after him, frustrated, confused. Then Stan hops onto the concrete, yells his name once, but gives up, with a groan. Cartman scoffs at the two of them, tells them to let Kenny go home and play with himself, they don't need him to have fun tonight. After all, his taste in booze are just bad as his taste in tunes.

Two voices shout— _Shut up!_ —as Kenny crosses through the eastern gate, the song softening as it winds to a close. He shuts his eyes, and can't believe how much he hates that harmonious singing, how his comfort tunes warped into sheer and unbearable _torture_. Never, never in his life have three minutes and eighteen seconds felt so goddamn _long_ , been so _excruciating_. Hell, he's _died_ in less agonising ways. But, as he wanders to the brush, wading through clusters of snow-dusted bushes, Britney sings her last line, and the number finally ends. It ends, and leaves Kenny to the night, to the auditory clutter. And he sighs, in relief, never happier to hear those terrible, irksome sounds.

All alone, Kenny walks, walks and wonders. Something happened there, something weird, something unexplained. But maybe it was just a one-time thing, something to do with the phase of the moon or time of the year. In South Park, a lot of crazy shit happens, and this definitely qualifies as crazy shit. So, perhaps, it happened once, and won't ever again. He can go to bed, wake up the next morning, and him and the guys can laugh it all off as a fluke, and let things return to their normal rhythm. Even if there are a few questions left unanswered, Kenny can live with the mystery, in the same way he lives with all the super gay shit Kyle makes him feel.

The revelation dawns on him, and Kenny stops in his tracks, as things start making sense. Because _that's_ how Kyle makes him feel, _like a goddamn Britney Spears song_.

But Kenny will never tell him, so Kyle will never know. What happened tonight won't happen again, so Kyle will never know. No matter what, _Kyle can never know._

 _ **Ever.**_

* * *

 **A/N:** Should I start another multi? No. Am I? Yes, because this should be just four or seven chapters. And I haven't written anything just fun and happy and stupid for some time, and I've been wanting to do this since Hootie & the Blowfish. I really hope you enjoyed and you're looking forward for more of Kenny's struggles, since he has a few more tunes to work his way through. I appreciate you reading, favouriting, and commenting so much! Thank you!


	2. Toxic

It's been a good three days saw the guys, Kenny imposing a quarantine on himself following _the incident_. Just a precaution, he assured himself, he just wanted some time to figure shit out. He sent a text the morning after, a feeble attempt to cover his ass, telling them that he came down with some awful brand of _sick_ , attributing his momentary delirium to an imaginary ailment. He left out how, upon returning home, he spent the night scouring the dark corners of the Internet for explanation, cross-referencing Wikipedia articles and browsing Reddit threads. He didn't tell them that the closest he got to an answer was aliens implanting chips in his skull, which is pretty lame compared to the routine anal probing. He skipped over the big revelation he stumbled across that placed Kyle at the epicentre of this entire mess. Because this is South Park, and weird things happen once—maybe twice—and things go back to normal. Kenny just wants things back to normal.

So he lied, told Stan and Kyle and Cartman that he had some highly contagious bug, that he woke up the next morning with clogged sinuses and stalactite snot, a hacking cough and flushing fever, bleary vision and a throbbing headache. Okay, the last two were true, but they were due to his hours of staring unblinking at a bright screen searching the entire web. He specified every gross and disgusting detail issuing a warning that they stay away, and not even try to defy him because his badass baby sister would be guarding the door. Though he considered actually asking her, Kenny decided against actually involving Karen, spare her any unnecessary concern over her dumbass big brother. No, this is _his_ problem, and it's gonna goddamn stay that way as long as he can help it.

Their responses were typical, pleasantly predictable in fact. Cartman ragged on him for bailing, promptly boasted after that they had the best night ever _without_ him, then claimed that all of Kenny's flulike symptoms were clearly a sign of poverty-induced HIV. For once, Cartman's verbal cancer brought Kenny a slight degree of comfort, _slight_. Stan spoke more like a friend, questioning his health while sprinkling get well wishes, then offered to help however he could. Lurking between the blue and grey bubbles, Kenny read Stan's scepticism, but felt relieved that his doubts remained in subtext. Kyle used less emojis but expressed a similar sentiment, encouraging Kenny to rest and recover, then demanded they hang out as soon as he's up for it. He almost ignored Kyle's message completely, fearing just his words would trigger another impromptu pop concert, but thankfully nothing happened.

For a good three days, nothing has happened. For a good three days, everything has been normal.

Kenny repeats those two phrases to himself over and over, loitering by the Kum & Go, a cigarette between his lips. He was never an anxious smoker, his nicotine highs purely recreational rather than desperate stress relief. These past few days, though, menthols have been his saving grace, quelling those fears in the back of his mind that, all of a sudden, his head would go off again, start playing another hit single, further warp his comfort into cruelty. His ashtray at home filled up as he grappled over his playlist repertoire, needing some kind of buffer for the big bad world, but lacking the heart to put on any pop, let alone Britney. In all of this frazzle and frenzy, he's resorted to Billboard Hot 100's mortal enemy: _country music_.

His earbuds feed him twangy guitars, fiery fiddles, honeyed ballads. Sure, people call him white trash for liking it, people claiming the genre's just pickup trucks and tasteless drunks, wannabe cowboys and big-tit bimbos, John Deere Tractors and Pabst Blue Ribbon; but Kenny reminds them that they live in a white-bread, pissant, redneck mountain town. They might have an acute social consciousness, sure, but they're still _hicks_ , just a more respectful breed. Some people— _Stan_ —still deny it, constantly claiming he likes _folk rock_ and _not_ _country_ , adamant on their total difference; but he's lying to himself. Whenever he's a particularly whiny prick about it, though, Kenny just hums a few chords of "Achy Breaky Heart," and Stan shuts _right_ the hell up.

He takes a long, therapeutic drag, deeply inhaling the smoke, and praying that the outlaws and their honky-tonk can cure his bubblegum brain. He ignores the crossing pools between genres, disowning those like Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood, and invites the ash into his chest, to mar his throat, coat his lungs. He wishes the division had more "Blank Space," that it wasn't as thin as Florida Georgia Line, that they were a whole "Generation Away." But rather than stress over the fusions, Kenny focuses on Brooks and Urban and Bentley, and maybe a few of the other country boys who share his first name. Seriously, what is it with guys named Kenny and singing backwoods anthems?

A cloudy puff leaves his lips, Kenny letting out a tired sigh. Embers swiftly crawl to the orange filter, most of his cig burnt to impotent cinders. He frowns, fingers twitching as he taps grey dust to the asphalt, contemplating whether it's worth lighting up another. The moment Kenny relented, sent the guys an all-clear, Stan and Kyle arranged plans for him. A walk around downtown in the mid-afternoon, so Kenny gets a spoonful of fresh air and a sprinkle of sunshine, boost his health through nature's bounty and fine company. And Kenny had to say yes, because Stan and Kyle are the best friends he has, and he can't worry them any more than he already has. Besides, what else is there to worry about? Nothing has happened since _the_ _incident_ , because, at least by South Park standards, everything is _normal._

" _Stan, you_ swore _that if I deleted Tinder you'd delete Phone Destroyer."_

" _I will, okay? Just, y'know,_ after _this team event finishes…"_

Kenny looks to the crosswalk, the pale green man lit up in his box, pedestrians temporarily safe from a jaywalking charge, not that any cars are clogging the intersection. Painted asphalt guides Stan and Kyle to the curb, leads them to Kenny and his shroud of jittered nerves and cool mint. Their footsteps carry them closer, their voices loudening with each step. Stan tells Kyle he supports his move away from unsolicited dick pics and endless left swipes, but denies any app deletion agreement. Kyle references some text exchange from weeks ago, then hints at Stan relapsing on his freemium addiction. Stan shoots him a glare, Kyle rolls his eyes, and Kenny can't hear a single dance, electronic, or pop beat. A relieved smile grows on his face; maybe Kenny was overreacting, spent the past few days overprotected.

"Just remember, when you start making micropayments again you're gonna have to answer to _Wendy_ ," Kyle says as his closing argument, before his eyes flicker to Kenny. For a split second, Kenny fears his gaze, a surge of fright striking him as he locks with the green. He draws in a sharp breath, swallows thick chemical smog, but, although he grates his throat, no music plays. Not even when Kyle's lips pull into a grin, lets out a casual, "Hey Kenny."

"H— _hhgh_ , _hhgh_ ," His lungs rebuke him, send him into a hacking fit. A little smoker's cough is nothing, is normal. Stan and Kyle reach the sidewalk, and Kenny lets his breathing temper out, clears his throat, " _Hi guys._ "

"Should you really be smoking after being super sick?" Suspicion tints Stan's eyes, still uncertain after the incident's events. Not surprising, Kenny expected this would happen. He was standing at ground zero, suffered greater exposure than Kyle or Cartman. But he won't speak out prematurely; he'll harbour his conjectures until he sleuths out some sort of conclusion. So, for now, Kenny's safe. For now.

"Well _really_ I shouldn't be smokin' at all," Kenny drawls, flicking the filter to the ground. The orange paper hits the concrete, and Kenny crushes the dimming flames beneath his boot, extinguishing them with a firm stomp, "But withdrawal's a worse bitch than any ol' cold."

Stan holds his stare a moment longer, his concerns unallayed, then shakes his head. Without any evidence, he pushes the matter aside, to stew and simmer until he finds more to add. And if the pot cools, ignored and then abandoned, Kenny will be all the happier.

"Well at least you're doing better," Kyle may have misgivings, have his own questions about the events that transpired, but he hides them for now. He understands the advantages of concealing speculation, extracting information easier when the process goes unnoticed. A light punch to Kenny's forearm, playful yet loaded, Kyle always hitting harder than he thinks, "You made it sound like you were dying."

"Just a lil' dying," His arm aches, and he feels a warmth in his chest, a cotton-ball fuzziness. Kyle doesn't even know how damn dangerous he is, the type of guy who should wear a warning, who doesn't have to do much of anything to send Kenny falling. He savours the feeling, and thanks every power higher than him for not outing his dumb queer flutters with a catchy melody, "Nothin' I couldn't get over."

"Long as you're _totally_ _over_ _it_ ," Bitterness flavours Stan's tone, though his words are harmless. He cuts in front of them, decidedly leading them away from the corner store and its stale chemical stench. Kyle looks between Stan and Kenny, sensing something amiss, but shrugs it off, proceeding down the concrete path. Kenny turns his foot, squashing the filter again for good measure, then trails after the other two. It only takes him a few long strides to catch up.

This, Kenny thinks, feels right, feels normal. Stan suggests they find something to do, and Kyle asks what there _is_ to do in their shitty town. They start volleying ideas, most of the fun stuff too childish for grown-ups, and the adult stuff too bland for twenty-somethings. If they didn't have decent jobs they could do drugs, if they didn't have self-dignity they could drink before five. The three of them will probably just wander around aimlessly until something happens to them, and Kenny is fine with that. He's got his best friends, he's got Paisley's _5_ _th_ _Gear_ playing, and he's got everything back to normal.

Thank _fuck_.

[ _Too high, can't come down…_ ]

The instrumental "Throttleneck" track won Brad Paisley is first Grammy, rounded up two more the following year, and boasts a good eighteen nominations in various categories. Clearly the Academy favours him far more than Britney who, despite her sensational popularity, only received eight nominations and, most offensively, only one win. However, despite the apparent vendetta against her, the Academy could not deny the musical genius of "Toxic," entranced by her raw and breathy voice, enamoured by the high-pitched notes from both strings and synthesisers, and enthralled by the lyrical fall into a passion-fuelled high, euphoric and sensual.

[ _Losin' my head, spinnin' round and round…_ ]

Kenny bites his lip, tries concealing his panic as he pulls out his phone. Maybe it's Spotify playing a mean old trick, tearing him from the embrace of barbeques and trucker caps to cruelly tease him. Maybe the app noticed how Kenny steered away from his upbeat jives, just wants to check if he's interested, part of some algorithm thing in a matchmaking protocol. But when he checks the display, he realises how foolish such hopes were. His phone is playing cowboy tunes, his earbuds giving him guitar strumming, but Kenny doesn't hear any of it.

[ _Do you feel me now?_ ]

"Aw _shit_ ," So much for this being a one-time thing.

Stan and Kyle stop talking about whatever they were talking about—whether fake window-shopping in Shi Tpa Town is entertaining or depressing—and both look to Kenny, curious about his frustrated muttering. Stan has that hard-boiled detective look, his eyes declaring to everyone how he's got a gut feeling about some funny business, nostrils flaring as if he can smell something fishy in the air. Kyle turns his head to the side, the slight tilt of disbelief, reckoning a repeat even if he won't admit it aloud.

[ _Oh, the taste of your lips, I'm_ _ **on a ride!**_ ]

"Kenny?" Kyle's tone falls flat, and Kenny knows they can hear it, knows _Kyle_ can hear it. And, unlike last time, he's standing in the blast radius. At this range, Kyle can easily steal his phone if Kenny lies and writes this off as more technical trouble, then he can yank out his headphones to put one in his ear and further confirm theory as reality. Hell, if Kenny tries bolting he might out _sprint_ him at first, but there's no way he'll out _run_ him. Motherfucker's got as much stamina as he does determination, something Kenny usually considers a turn-on, but is, in this case, an existential threat.

What even are his options here?

[ _You're_ _ **toxic**_ _I'm_ _ **slippin' under!**_ ]

"What?" Playing it cool, he concludes, he just needs to play it _cool_. Maybe he had it all wrong before, maybe this is stress-induced. When it happened the first time he did nothing short of freaking the fuck out, so it might just be stress. General stress, not anything relating to Kyle, or Kenny's feelings, or Kenny's feelings for Kyle. He just has a lot going on, probably, and his body is reacting to it, strangely. But, considering nobody born after the year 1990 has a grasp on handling stress healthily, he does the next best thing: refuse to deal with the problem head-on and simply ignore it until it magically goes away.

Or he has a mental breakdown, whichever comes first.

[ _With a taste of a_ _ **poison paradise**_ _…_ ]

"Music's too loud again," Every word that leaves Kyle's lips dials up the volume, cranking up another notch with each syllable and sound. This must be because Kenny's panicking over Kyle finding out, not because of Kyle directly, just the immense stress he happens to be causing, "Seriously, I thought you said your phone was fixed."

[ _I'm_ _ **addicted**_ _to_ _ **you!**_ _]_

"It was!" He says, too loudly, voice nearly cracking. Stan raises a brow while Kyle knits his.

[ _Don't you know that you're_ _ **toxic?**_ ]

Kenny swallows, exhales through his nose, mumbles, "I _thought_ it was."

[ _And I_ _ **love**_ _what_ _ **you do!**_ ]

Nope, this isn't working.

[ _Don't you know that you're_ _ **toxic?**_ ]

This is just making it _worse_.

Kyle holds out a hand, a silent request to examine the phone. Kenny shouldn't be shocked; Kyle graduated college with a degree in computer science, and currently pays his bills by repairing other peoples' broken electronics. But Kyle won't find anything out of the ordinary on his device, only fully realise the problem lies somewhere in Kenny's stupid head. His heart beats a little faster, and he can't quite tell whether it's fluster or fear.

Kenny stares into his palm, rethinks his options. No, he doesn't have many—barely has any—but he has some. He can cooperate, surrender his cell and expose himself, or he can withhold, back away hastily and hightail home. Bailing won't end well, even if he escaped unscathed the later consequences would sting, but admitting his problem leads to all sorts of uncertainties. They all cross his mind at once, overlapping images of ridicule and repulsion and retching, before he remembers the music's steady amplification. Understanding he can't stall forever, Kenny heaves a deep sigh, and pulls out his earphones.

He opens his mouth, about to explain, but pauses; the music stopped. No chorus reprisal rings in the air, no violins or surf guitars, just the normal sounds of the neighbourhood, just Bud Light bottles rolling in the gutter and Doritos bags rolling like tumbleweeds across pavement. Stan's eyes widen, his look befuddled, but refrains from anything beyond a _WTF_ face. Kyle blinks three times, opens his mouth, but holds his tongue in hopes Kenny shares some enlightenment. Kenny relaxes, his lips curling into a smooth grin.

"What can I tell ya?" Laughter sneaks into his voice, Kenny praying it doesn't sound desperate, "The buds must be junk!"

 _Bullshit_ , that's what Kyle's face screams, eyes displaying his inner struggle to refute. But for whatever reason—the sheer bewilderment of the matter or his own tiredness—he comes up empty. In an almost mocking tone, a scoff to guise his frustration, "Well, never seen that before."

"Those are the ones you got with your phone, right?" Stan doesn't let him off as easily, "The shitty Apple ones that last a month and a half?"

"They only lasted so short for you 'cause you dropped 'em in Mountain Dew," Kenny sneers, takes out his phone. He wraps the thin white wires around the middle, then tucks the buds under one rung to secure, "These puppies are goin' on three years 'r so. So, it's gotta be their circuits."

Stan sticks out his tongue, and Kenny laughs to himself. Wow, his explanation sort of makes sense, in an abstract sense. If he didn't just knowingly make it up, he might even buy it.

"Yeah, but they usually make music _harder_ to hear," Kyle points out, voice sharp. He knows something's wrong, and it'll bother him to his very core, but he won't figure out why. This is all too dumb for his smart-person brain, so Kenny is safe from his powerful deductions. Much as he hates watching Kyle try to no avail, aware how caustic annoyance is when it festers in him, it's for the best.

Kenny shrugs, winks, "Guess I'm just _magic_."

Besides, what would he do if he knew the _truth_? How would he come back from that?

[ _The_ _ **palest green**_ _I've ever seen,_ _ **the colour of your eyes!**_ _You're taking me so far away,_ _ **one look**_ _and you_ _ **stop time!**_ ]

 _Blackout_ was Britney's comeback, an edgy electropop album with rave vibes and dubstep mixes. While everyone remembers the singles, with "Gimme More" hard to forget, every track is its own masterpiece, Kenny's personal favourite being "Heaven On Earth." Maybe it's the dreaminess lacing Spears' singing, or the slow tempo balancing lullaby and dance, or the lyrics' descriptions nicely matching Kyle. Even with lower basses and dropped beats, the raw spirit of pop-bred love comes across, and for that it will always hold a special place in Kenny's heart.

But, hearing it now, playing out of the blue, Kenny questions its place. His blood runs cold, heart skip-skip-stopping in his chest. His lips twitch, smile vanishes, and he forces a swallow. His phone weigh in his hand like a block of lead, a physical testament against his prior claims, proof his problem has nothing to do with technology. And, worse still, his problem has a _shuffle_ function.

[ _ **Fell in love with you**_ _and everything that you are!_ ]

Kyle, caught completely off-guard, "What the _fuck_?"

Stan, putting _something_ together, "You're _kidding_."

[ _Nothing I can do, I'm_ _ **really crazy about you!**_ ]

"Look," Kenny shoves both hands in his pockets, as if he can find a quick fix in their depths. While Stan and Kyle stand stopped, Kenny starts a sneaky back-peddle, "I don't really know what's goin' on, but I'm feelin' I oughta get ba—"

[ _When you're next to me, it's just like heaven on earth!_ ]

" _This_ is why you stayed home for three days?" Kyle asks and accuses, at the same time. Kenny picks out a few emotions, _furious_ about not knowing, _hurt_ about not being told, _confused_ about the situation itself. He wants to apologise for all of them.

[ _You're_ _ **heaven**_ _, (you're_ _ **heaven**_ _,)_ _ **you're heaven on earth!**_ ]

"I'm handling it, okay?" Kenny says, unconvincing. He notices Stan's eyes flicker, notice Kenny slinking away. Only a matter of seconds until he rats Kenny out, and the last thing he needs is both Kyle and Stan chasing him. No, he needs a new excuse, "I'll go to the doctor right now 'n get looked at!"

[ _Tell me that I'll always be_ _ **the one that you want!**_ ]

" _Kenny_ ," Kyle growls, eyes narrowing to slits. Not the answer he wanted, but, unfortunately, the answer he'll need to accept. After all, the end of the verse swiftly approaches, and with it enough to _really_ put Kenny in a _pinch_.

[ _Don't know_ _ **what I'd do**_ _if I ever_ _ **lose you!**_ ]

Kenny runs, faster than he has in a good long while. He zooms across the nearby intersection as the timer counts down, three-two-one second until traffic flow resumes. Only after his feet hit the concrete does he hear the sounds of revving oiled engines and purring hybrid batteries, of cars actually occupying the main roads, of a tangible obstacle between him and his friends. Though he maintains his pace, he glances behind him, glimpsing Stan and Kyle abandoned on the other curb. They both look pissed—rightfully so—Stan barely restraining a visibly angry Kyle.

[ _Look at_ _ **you**_ _and what I see is_ _ **heaven on earth!**_ ]

This is for _him_ , Kenny tells himself, tries to tell himself. For the moment Kyle might hate him, for flaking out and for keeping secrets, for avoiding him and for straight up running; but it's for the best. It's for them, for their friendship, for Kyle. Or it's just for Kenny, because after all these years he's still too chicken-shit to say it to his face, say what Britney sings so easily:

[ _ **I'm in love with you!**_ ]

* * *

A/N: This chapter is shorter (and dumber) than the last one, but I hope you still liked it! Now atm I'm only planning on 4 chapters but depending on how the next part goes it might be changed...we'll see! Hope you're enjoying the ride! Thanks for liking/kudosing/reviewing it means a lot to me!


	3. Can't Make You Love Me

Kenny can't believe how fucking stupid he is. Just an _isolated_ _incident_? Really? Is he that goddamn _retarded_ that he honestly _believed_ that crap? He's done some real stupid shit in his life, but buying into his own feverish delusions? Yeah, he _hoped_ this'd all blow over, miraculously cured in a week like a formulaic comedy show, but he goddamn _knows_ better! Rather than face the reality that he has a _condition_ , Kenny decided to cheese on optimism, huffing false positivity like cat piss, and getting high, high, high on his own pretty lies, making it all the worse when he crash, crash, _crashed_. What a dumb motherfucker!

The initial onset tricked him, lulled him into a false sense of security, made him think physical separation was key to quelling the songs in his soul. When Kenny rushed home that day, stumbling through the front door completely out of breath, he wholeheartedly thought distance was all it took to stop his internal stereo. He kept thinking that as Karen jumped up from the couch, eyes bulging, scared shitless. She rushed up to her big brother, asking what the hell happened, expecting a story about Kenny outrunning a rabid black bear, not a pissed off ginger twink. Kenny muddled words together, speaking in fragments broken up by heaving pants, unintelligible and incoherent. He managed a few broad stroke statements, keeping things vague, then he mentioned Kyle and…

[ _It's scary, yeah! I think I need some hypno-therapy, yeah! This thing is so very!_ ]

The moment Karen heard that Japanese exclusive, Kenny knew he was beyond fucked. His mouth hung open, song blasting from his head, and Karen shut her eyes. She mimicked Craig Tucker's flat nasal tone and said something about calling the doctor, then walked into the kitchen to schedule his appointment. Kenny watched her leave in silence, wishing her brother told her before things got bad, then stared at the beer-stained carpet, wondering what he did to deserve this sick punishment. Kenny has a problem, a problem he can't hide, a problem that won't stop getting exponentially worse. It began in his heart, then spread to his brain, and now he can't even think of _him_ without…

[ _It feels so good, I don't wanna stop! So, baby, come with me and be my OOH LA LA!_ ]

He dropped by, too, not long after Kenny got home that day. Stan must've dragged his feet the whole way, telling Kyle to give Kenny space, trailing behind him as his advice fell on deaf ears. Kyle is the type of person who stays at someone's bedside when they're sick in the hospital, but also the type of person who digs deeper and deeper when secrets elude him. So, when he started pounding on the plywood, fist banging so hard he nearly punched through, Kenny found a knife and jabbed it into his heart. Not literally, despite the temptation of death's cathartic embrace; Kenny turned to Karen, got on his knees and begged her to deal with his friends, to tell Kyle he wasn't there, he wouldn't see them, anything to get _him_ away. She stared at him, pity in those big brown doe eyes, her lips pressed into a flat line. He knows what she was thinking, that her brother was a _pussy_ , a _chickenshit_ over a few gooey _feelings_ , no better than a _high school drama queen_.

Karen should've told him to _go fuck himself_ , told him to _man up_ and _grow a pair_ , except Karen isn't that type of person. No, she simply let out a slow, steady sigh, and told Kenny to go to his room, to wait things out while she handled it. Kenny laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and hating himself for making his baby sister clean up his mess. He listened to their muffled voices, but it wasn't drywall or plaster that deterred his eavesdropping. The haunting piano from "Everytime" played whenever Kyle spoke, drowning out exact words, and taunting him with a soulful ballad. After a while, they gave up, and Karen poked into his room, shared her success laced with bitterness, devoid of any joy. Kenny's chest aches, remembering the look on her face, the gleam in her eyes: _hurt_ that wasn't hers.

[ _My weakness caused you pain… And this song's my sorry…_ ]

Thanks to a clerical error on Medicaid's part, Kenny can't see any medical professionals for at least another week. Their insurance won't cover any sort of visit until they fix their system, and they don't have the funds to out-of-pocket a non-emergency bill. Kenny doubts anyone with a white lab coat can help, confident that science cannot fix whatever's wrong. The music playing from his head is a _symptom_ , not the full affliction. There's just one prescription, and it's a damn hard pill to swallow. Kenny could be honest, tell Kyle that he makes him _tik-tik, tik-tik, tik-tik—boom!_ An explosive confession might be enough to detonate his cranial stereo, though its fallout might be enough to obliterate everything they have. Kenny can't lose him, not when he doesn't know how to live without him, without his love, like he was born to make him happy.

Guilt sears his heart, an astringent sting igniting every crack and tear. _Denial_ , he always picks denial, because it's safer, because it's easier, because it's _convenient_. For a damn long time, he denied liking Kyle the way he does, chronically writing off his affection as purely friendly, refuting any possibility of romantic or sexual attraction. Bebe constantly teased him, said Kenny was so _obvious_ , and Kenny kept telling her to lay off the yaoi, remained _oblivious_ until the senior year ski trip. Kenny accidentally caught Kyle getting out of the shower, glimpsing his wet naked body for a whole two seconds. They bathed together as kids, so seeing him nude wasn't that awkward; the boner he popped, on the other hand, made him question just how he defined _platonic_. He stopped denying how he feels, sure, but he keeps denying _Kyle_ that, denying him a direct admission, denying him the full truth.

That's why this is happening, isn't it?

Kenny hunches over the kitchen table, looks down into his oversized mug. He stares at his sad reflection, mopey face swimming in dark roast, strong whiskey stench burning his nose. No, he isn't solving anything pouring Jameson in his brew, isn't doing much drinking his ghetto Irish coffee. Alcohol won't reverse his acute insomnia. Caffeine won't eradicate his draining fatigue. His bare-bones cocktail will make him feel better, or make him tipsy enough to pretend he feels better. If Stan's taught him anything, it's that being miserable and drunk beats being miserable and sober. He really shouldn't take advice from a lowkey alcoholic.

With a sigh, he brings the mug to his lips, takes a slow, contemplating sip. His brooding-boozing stint doesn't have much longer, Karen's patience wearing thin. She's tolerated him so far because she feels bad, because she sees the despair warping his features, because she mistakenly mentions Kyle every now and again. Any exasperation she harbours melts, turns to regret, their strained conversation replaced with "Before the Goodbye" or "I Run Away." Thick melancholy glazes blue eyes, dims their bright light, and Karen blames herself for what he's done to himself. Whiskey trickles down his throat, burns with hints of hazelnut. Irish coffee tastes like denial, and Kenny always picks it. Kyle should hate him for this.

[ _'Cause I don't wanna move on, so I gotta hold on! Baby, because you and me are sinkin' like quicksand!_ ]

Kenny relies on his extensive trivia during song spells, his niche knowledge a decent distraction, deterring him from fixating. He focuses instead on "Quicksand," only available on the European iTunes Deluxe edition of _Circus_ , along with a few other tracks needlessly barred from American release. The song was co-written by Lady Gaga, whose hit "Telephone" was originally intended for Britney Spears. Although she rejected it, Britney recorded a demo, the rough experimental cut eventually leaking online. During his brief and atrocious ' _little monster_ ' phase, Cartman compared the unfinished rip with the polished release, claiming it proved Britney the inferior vocalist. While Kenny doesn't typically punch people over music opinions, he made an exception for Cartman, shut him up with a mean right hook. He clutched his nose, blood gushing between his fingers, avowing his undying hatred, as Kenny made a fake phone with one hand, a middle finger with the other, _"Sorry I cannot hear you, I'm kinda biz-eh."_

" _Hey, Kenny."_

He perks up, waves of coffee crashing against ceramic, a few drops splashing over the rim. Thanks to his cerebral woofers, Kenny can't pick up on sounds the way he used to, his finely attuned hearing severely stunted, edge vastly dulled. Karen could never sneak up on him before—even with headphones—always detecting some subtle sound cue, a footstep or giggle, and then expecting her arrival. Despite its annoyance, Kenny misses his hyper-awareness. These days, he's barely aware.

Kenny glances over, gaze falling on Karen in the archway. On her way out, he judges, backpack slung over her shoulders, ready for another afternoon at Park County Community. Sometimes Kenny forgets she's not a little kid anymore, especially when she puts her tawny hair up in cute little pigtails. They used to braid each other's hair and play Pretty Pretty Princess, now Karen babysits while Kenny binge-drinks. Kevin dodged a bullet enlisting in the army, he doesn't have to see what's become of brother and sister.

"Ya leavin', Kare Bear?" He drawls, forces a simper. It feels wrong talking to Karen without smile, granted the one he flashes can't be all that convincing. He can't put on a guise of happiness when there's nothing left of the mask. Not so lucky, not a star, telling himself not to cry, cry, cry in his lonely heart. Or not in front of Karen, anyway.

"Yeah, won't be back 'til five," Karen says, tugging on a strap. Her eyes scan the kitchen, gliding across the counters, sweeping under the table, avoiding Kenny entirely. Kenny raises a brow, watching her lick her bottom lip, shifts her weight from one knee to the other. Something teeters on her tongue, but she hesitates, because, whatever she has to say, Kenny won't like it. As he lowers his mug, he raises a brow, watches her chest rise, lips blow out a sigh. Then, in a low mumble, "'N you've got a visitor."

Betrayal burns in the blue, _"Kare, I told y—"_

" _It's not one of them_ ," She cuts him off, pruning shears snipping a bothersome bud. Her tone bites, announces that Karen is officially done, with the coddling, with the hand-holding, with the _woe-is-me_ sulking. Her stare steels, warning Kenny against any further objection, in no mood to fight. Regret lurks in the brown, apologising to her brother, even though he forced her hand.

Kenny bites his lip, heart panging. Karen is too kind, too empathetic to stand idly by. _Of course_ , she'd intervene, step in before Kenny suffered a full mental break. After all those times Kenny rescued her from bullies, Karen's the one to swoop in and save Kenny from himself. He inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth, "Who is it?"

" _Hiya, Kenny!"_

That shrill voice rings in Kenny's ears, and Butters appears over Karen's shoulder, materialising out of thin air, a too cheerful grin plastered on his face. No, Butters isn't an inherently bad person; in fact, he can be a _genuinely_ _nice_ person, though his upbeat pep grates after a short while. He's just extremely _gullible_ , a clump of Play-Doh ready to be manipulated, sculpted and warped into whatever someone else wants. Kenny rarely goes out of his way to be an asshole, a firm believer of treating people with _decency_ , but he still finds Butters annoying, irritating, and fucking obnoxious.

"I'll let you catch up," One moment, she's there, the next, she's gone, skipping off to class, "See ya," and the door slams shut, Kenny left behind, _abandoned_. Never mind, Karen has _no mercy_.

Kenny's eyes dart to pale grey, bright and colourless, same shade as soft pencil scribbles, brimming with nauseating glee. His whole aura is abrasive, corrosive happiness, a harsh acid threatening Kenny's delicate grasp on sanity. Clearly, Butters was _sent_ , a new messenger of _torture_ , ensuring his plight worsens _exponentially_ , as if things aren't bad enough. His smile fades, giving up on illusions, resigning to his sorrowful state. He takes another swig and then, mustering minimal effort, "Hey, man…"

"So, uh," _Articulate_ is not a word that describes Butters, especially when leading a conversation. Trepidation swiftly creeps into his voice, his jitters rocking his timbre, clueless without guidance. He knocks his knuckles together, a nervous tic, and uncomfortably wades into the room, "How ya been?"

Whiskey saturates his taste-buds, acerbic tingle tickling his throat. Could've used more, Kenny figures, could've made it stronger. Hell, if he knew Butters was coming, he would've ditched the coffee entirely, drank straight from the bottle. He gulps, a hard swallow; why won't the alcohol _hit_ already? Frustration mangles his tone, Kenny speaking in snarls, nasty and snide, "Been shitty, Butters. Real goddamn _shitty_."

"Y-yeah," _Agreement_ , Butters' default response, straw hair bouncing as he nods his head. He plods over to an empty dining room chair, gingerly taking a seat next to Kenny. He scoots his chair closer—too close—inclined towards comforting others, whether they want it or not. From his peripheral, Kenny spots the faded scar over Butters' left eye, the mark left by Kenny's shuriken, "I heard a lil' talkin' to Stan and Kyle…"

[ _ **Deep in my heart**_ _, I know there's_ _ **only you!**_ ]

" _Jesus_ ," An alarmed pipe, and Butters shoots back, propelled by the blast of lively lyrics. He startles easily, yelping over firecrackers on 4th of July, scared of cheap effects in horror movies. The guys might've warned him, mentioned the effects of Kenny's issue. Probably kept things vague, because neither of them knows what to call this, and Stan won't label Kyle a _trigger_. How much has Stan put together by now? How much has _Kyle_?

[ _And right from the start I_ _ **always knew!**_ ]

Kenny's head droops, muscles limp, lets out a tired groan. A palm pats his shoulder, warm gesture with good intentions, compassionate. He receives the touch coldly, Butters' sympathy unwelcome, rebuffing him with a stirring twitch. Kenny should've hung on to those cheap ninja stars. Butters could use another one lodged in his skull.

[ _I_ _ **never let go!**_ _'Cause I_ _ **love you so!**_ ]

"Do you…" Reluctantly, he retracts his hand, reaches behind his head. Grey flickers in every direction, searching for the best approach. Kenny's being too hard on him, shooting the messenger because he can't face his friends. After all, they could've sent Cartman, who'd bring a bag of popcorn and commentate Kenny's spiral like a Let's Play wannabe. Butters scratches the back, nails scraping shaved scalp, "Wanna talk about that?"

[ _Ohhh! I want ya for the_ _ **rest of my life!**_ ]

"Not much to talk 'bout," Kenny shrugs, stares at a scrape on the table-top, refuses eye contact. He can't say he's embarrassed, or mortified, or ashamed; he doesn't feel _anything_ , inside empty and vacant, because of the songs he adores, because of the person he loves. This is a battle—him against the music—and he's getting his ass kicked. What'll be left of him once it's over?

Butters bites his lip, breathes a huff out his nose. He wants to be supportive, be helpful, be a friend. Not a lot of people are nice to Butters— _ever_ —so because Kenny is— _occasionally_ —Butters thinks highly of him, respects him. He probably knows he gets on Kenny's nerves, too, and appreciates Kenny for shoving aside his grievances and putting up with his existence. Weird how acting like a decent human being pays off sometimes. Then, finally, "You sure like Britney a whole lot, huh?"

A laugh escapes his lips, one of those nervous reflexes, what happens when someone says something that's not comedic, but somehow _funny_. Tension ebbs from his cheeks, Kenny blessed with a slight reprieve, a gasp of relief. Guess he can't hate the guy too much, least not right now. He leans back in his chair, a finger gently tip-tip-tapping on the mug. His eyes flit to grey, offering him a weak smile, " _Sure do_."

He returns with a grin of his own, a shaky breath bordering on a chuckle, expelling his anxieties. He gulps air, replenishing his lungs, breathing no longer culled by internal panic. His shoulders ease, roll back with his recline. Butters settles into composure while Kenny takes another sip. The bitter burn trickles down his throat, and Butters blurts out, "Kinda like how you _like_ - _like_ Kyle a whole lot?"

[ _ **I want your love forever! Ohhh! I want you for the rest of my life!**_ ]

Butters couldn't've timed his revelation better, whiskey diverting down Kenny's windpipe, alcoholic choke coupled with jiving pop. Coughs rock his system, saliva sputtering from his mouth, tears welling in their ducts, random and involuntary responses to other random and involuntary reactions. No point in arguing— _denying_ —not with a soundtrack broadcasting his emotional roller-coaster. Besides, Kenny's never been good with discretion in love. He wipes the drool from his chin, tongues the inside of his cheek, and softly says, " _Yeah_ … Kinda like that."

"You, uh…" He tilts his head, for a better view of Kenny's face, "Wanna talk about _that_?"

Kenny stares ahead, blank and blind; does he want to talk about it? Come to think of it, has he talked about it, _seriously_? If anything, his feelings are an open secret, something known but rarely spoken, acknowledged but not elaborated. Small towns love gossip; however, it needs to go somewhere, otherwise it goes stale within a week. Kenny liking Kyle is too simple for the rumour mill, no further developments or complicated twists, a statement not a story. Amongst a select few, it's common knowledge, so Kenny hasn't dwelled on the subject. Before everyone else, it's scarcely worthy of a footnote, so Kenny hasn't given reason for expansion.

Quick answer: no, he hasn't talked about this all too much, and it's about time he changes that.

His foot knocks against a table leg, tremors jostling the precarious top, ripples spreading across the coffee's surface. A lot of people said Kenny broke out of his shell once he ditched the hood, started speaking clearly, showing off his pretty face. They probably said that because, shortly after, he earned a _reputation_ , blessed with the power to wink and smooth talk his way into any bed he pleased. No one ever mentions that it's others who initiate those encounters, or that Kenny consents because he doesn't _mind_ , because he doesn't _care_. He _actually cares_ about Kyle, so his supposed charm has never worked. Kenny takes a deep breath:

"Guess it started a long time ago. Iunno when, 'cause I was the last person to know before him. Like, didn't think I really liked 'im like that 'til I was way too deep to say I didn't, y'know?"

[ _Just the thought of being close to you… (Close to you…)_ ]

For reasons unknown, "Can't Make You Love Me" never released as a single, despite being a highlight of _Oops… I Did It Again_. It was a new millennium, and Britney was the hot trend, but the industry wasn't sure how long she'd last as Miss American Dream. Her first three studio albums dropped back to back, the time crunch a likely factor in its rude exclusion. He's no better than the big buck execs, his aimless ramblings cutting through the bridge:

"After I figured it out, I guess I didn't wanna fuck anything up, or _maybe_ fuck anything up. Told myself that if I played it cool, kept doin' what I was, things'd just… work out. 'Cause that's how it is in the long game."

[ _It's incomparable… (Oh, baby…)_ ]

"'Cept it's _not_ , it's not the _long game_ it's just _pussing out_ , _"_ Over and over and over, "'Cause ya think your _cock's_ gonna _screw_ _shit over_ ," Throw _years_ straight down the _gutter_ , "'N even though I wanted to tell 'im, I didn't wanna _lose_ what me 'n 'im have, didn't wanna _risk_ it."

[ _Should be happy with the life I live…_ ]

The crescendo builds, passion fuelling volume, and Butters' nodding slows. Warm understanding dims, caution and confusion taking its place as Butters opens his mouth, tempted to interrupt. But Kenny bangs his mug on the table, his attention elsewhere, raising his voice with the lyrics:

"So, instead of makin' Kyle all _con-dick-ted_ , I _shoved_ it. I shut my goddamn stupid mouth and let a bunch of other guys do what I _fuckin'_ _wouldn't_."

[ _And the things I do…_ ]

"Listenin' to 'em say _all_ the shit _I_ wanted to say," Words like _babe_ , phrases like _love you_ , "Heard 'bout 'em draggin' Ky' off to do _all_ the shit _I_ wanted to do," Holding hands and kissing sweet, giving head and screwing rough, "While _I_ just _stood_ _there_ like a _dumbass loser_ thinkin'…"

[ _Seems like I have it aaaall…_ ]

"Uh, Kenny?" Butters leans closer, unaware of the timer counting down, the bomb charged and set. He doesn't realise his error until the nuke goes off, until Kenny bangs his mug on the table, until emotions belt out through her singing, through his screaming.

[ _ **Can't make you!**_ ]

" _Why the fuck can't it be me!?"_

[ _ **Make you love me, baby!**_ ]

"Why is it _always_ some _douchebag_ like _David_ or _Token_ or _Craig_?"

[ _ **It's my life!**_ ]

"Shit, even _dirty French prick?!_ But _not me?!_ "

[ _ **What can I do?**_ ]

"He doesn't want me—!"

[ _ **Can't make you!**_ ]

"But I want him to—!"

[ _ **LOVE ME!**_ ]

"He's never, _ever_ —!"

[ _ **(Alright!)**_ ]

" _KENNY!"_ Butters jostles his shoulder, desperate attempt to breaking Kenny from his symphonic psychosis. His grip tightens, an ironclad clamp, glued to the bone. He squeezes— _hard_ —more force than Kenny expected. And it _seriously_ _hurts_.

[ _I'm just a girl!_ ]

" _What?"_ The tears glazing his eyes obscure Kenny's sharp glare, glower neutralised by a wobbly film. He doesn't have a problem with crying, does have a problem with crying in front of Butters. Things can't be that bad, can they?

[ _With a_ _ **crush**_ _on_ _ **you!**_ ]

One, two, three blinks, as the chorus pours out his ears, as a drop leaks out his eye. His skin crawls, warm streak dribbling down his cheek, one stray tear cementing his brand new low. Drum beats and techno-synthesisers fill the room, and Kenny looks away, looks down, looks into his mug. He stares at his same sad reflection, same mopey face, and Butters' hold softens, morphs into a soothing pat. Yup, Kenny should've added more whiskey.

"It'll be alright, buddy," Butters' cooing reminds Kenny of a pigeon, relatively harmless, vaguely sickening.

This whole damn thing has Kenny feeling _sick_ , stomach churning with acid and bile, head pounding with electro-pop and dance, chest aching with self-pity and remorse. Stan used to get so nervous around Wendy that he'd puke all over her, drench her with vomit because he loved her so much. Kenny gets so fluttery about Kyle that he projects Britney Spears music, blares cheesy love songs because he loves him so much. Somehow the compulsive upchucking sounds easier to control.

"Y'know, I think I may know a fella who can help ya," Something lifts in Butters' voice, stumbling onto a grand revelation. Kenny looks back at him, in time to see the high grin dominate his face, the clarity twinkle in the grey. His optimism beams like the sun, blinding and overwhelming, _infectious_. Something in his eyes rekindles the tiny spark of hope in Kenny, the one he tried burying under a mountain of denial, the one that resurrects like he does. He might be stupid, falling back into positivity's snare, but holing up and bunkering down isn't doing him any good.

At this point, Kenny will try anything.


	4. I'm a Slave 4 U

Since talking things out, Kenny's realised something: he hasn't been in control. This whole damn time— _years_ , at this point—he's let his anxieties fester, his worries blister, his fear of rejection canker and ulcerate. Scars paved over his suppressed emotions, a new layer forming each time Kenny saw Kyle and withheld his true feelings, a cyst choking his heart. When it burst, bouncy love songs oozing from inside, Kenny assumed the worst, because he didn't understand. He thought his emotions were out to get him, determined to ruin the two greatest loves of his life. But he was wrong, Britney's told him all along, because feelings are supposed to be _felt_ , be _expressed_ , be _shared_. Kenny's stronger than yesterday, and things are gonna go _his_ way.

Well, they _ought_ to go his way, once he figures out a plan; _just_ _winging it_ is _not_ a valid strategy.

He honestly didn't expect much from Butters, but he was desperate, vulnerable, a bona fide mess. He thought his mysterious contact might be Priest Maxi, because Kenny's such a big fan of _confession_ , or perhaps Mr Mackey, because Kenny's all about signing up for _therapy_. Instead, he led with a bombshell: Kenny isn't alone in his condition. Turns out, _one_ other case exists, someone whose head blasted Hootie & the Blowfish whenever his emotions flared. Butters was spotty with particulars, details few and far between, but assured Kenny that meeting this guy would help. On his way out, Kenny thanked him, really meant it too. All Butters did was smile, wave goodbye, and chime his support, _"Best-a-luck with Kyle!"_

Kenny needs all the luck he can get.

Cannabidiol vapours linger in the air, hemp mist tinging alpine winds. Kenny largely avoids the gentrified district, the _bourgeois_ surroundings shaming him staining their chic boulevards with his blue-collar existence. The guys purposely omit Crunchy's Microbrewery during their bar crawls, because they only serve 'artisanal beers' sourced from 'local brewers,' meaning every drink tastes like straight-up piss. Plus, the place caters to social justice warriors, their black-and-white morality policing everyone's behaviour, constructive dialogue suffocated by the ruthless discourse. Because they all prefer not waking up saran-wrapped to an aspen with crudely drawn penises scrawled on their faces, Stan and Kyle and Cartman stay far away. And Kenny does too, except for today. He stares at the frosted glass door, takes a deep breath. Why does the _only_ other person with this sort of problem have to be _PC_?

As Kenny walks in, he inhales the stench Drakkar Noir body spray and Ralph Lauren aftershave, an aggressively masculine smell. The homogenous patrons may pledge themselves to protecting the oppressed, but they're still cisgender heterosexual white men with college educations. Yet they don't see anything contradictory about their tolerant rhetoric and their witch-hunt tactics, surmising that they can be good feminists if they recognise that women are people and listen to "Work B**ch" and "3" during their cardio routines. With every step, new sets of eyes fall on him, the unauthorised outsider wandering into their verified safe space, Kenny unwittingly made the centre of attention. Their gazes are knives pressed to his back, sharpened with judgement, checking his privilege. Maybe it's a good thing he skipped out on the whole college experience.

He ignores them, focuses instead about his mismatched kindred spirit. He repeats the description—blue polo, shield sunglasses, jacked muscles, gopher mouth—scans the bar. He filters through the partial matches, amazed by the amount of incomplete combinations, until he finally sees one who fits the bill. He talks to another PC-Frat-Bro about some gross type of - _ism_ , bronze hair shining beneath the overhang lamps, every strand secured by thick gel. _Total_ _douchebag_ , Kenny thinks, but knows better than to utter it aloud.

The bartender's eyes narrow as he approaches, warning him not to cause any trouble, even though anyone with a man-bun is clearly _in_ trouble. Kenny flashes him an awkward smile, but can't make any promises. Trouble follows him everywhere he goes, that's his prerogative. He slides onto the nearest barstool, reads over the blackboard menu, snubbing the brews and cocktails, searching for the soft drinks. They don't serve Coke— _of course, they don't_ —and, although Britney sang of its joys, Kenny will _not_ order a Pepsi.

"Can I get a Dr Pep-er?" He asks, debating whether he should've tacked a _please_ on the end. The rules of this realm are strange, Kenny unsure whether good manners might be misconstrued as disenfranchisement. Reluctantly, the bartender nods, once, then walks away towards the cooler. Meanwhile the conversation beside him ends, uniting fists concluding a riveting discussion on race and/or ethnicity. The unknown bro heads elsewhere, and Kenny looks to the man beside him, "Hey, uh… PC Principal?"

Immediately, he whirls in his seat, faces Kenny. His fuzzy chin tuft and ghost of a moustache nearly distract from his bleached bright teeth. Kenny can't read his expression, blue-tinted glass hiding his eyes. He talks like he has his lips against a microphone, _"Yeah, bruh, that's me, PC Principal. 'Sup?"_

"' _Sup_ …" Kenny blames his shaky nerves on the atmosphere, on the garage band alternative and the squads of woke jocks, "I, erm, sorta got this…" If he offends anyone in the slightest, he's boned, " _Issue_ …" But he needs a game plan, needs guidance, "And I kinda think you're the one guy who can…" The _shoujo_ manga makes this look so damn easy, "Help me…?"

PC Principal holds his stare—maybe he blinks, _maybe_ , Kenny can't tell—processing the barely coherent request. Kenny proofs over what he said, afraid he accidentally violated someone's human rights, punishment quick to follow. But, instead, PC Principal folds his arms, nods his head, "Sure, _bruh_ , always happy be of assistance. Now, are you encountering any hostility within this community? Or are you noticing toxicity infringing on your everyday life?"

"Nah, dude…" He's never explained his situation with _words_ , doesn't know where to start, what'll _guarantee_ he knows Kenny's position, "This is a more… _personal_ thing."

"So, you're working through some internalised behaviours you'd like to stop?" If his Britney thing counts as an _internalised behaviour_ , then PC Principal isn't _totally_ off. But Kenny's fairly sure he's thinking down the lines of misogyny and transphobia. God, why is this so hard to say?

 _Oh, duh._

"Hold on," Kenny reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Why waste his breath when he can show off an example? He taps in a passcode, finds the photo application. He scrolls through his library, passing over dumb memes and cute cats, until he finds his most recent _real_ picture, taken only a few days before this mess began. The four of them met at Cartman's house for their monthly Mario Party session, a twenty-turn ritual ultimately testing their friendship. After the final minigame, Kyle's Yoshi secured a few coins advantage over Stan's Mario, seemingly poised to narrowly take the game; until the bonus stars all went to Princess Peach, handing Kenny the star lead and the win. To be an asshole, Kenny snapped a victory selfie with the congratulatory screen, but Kyle purposely bombed the shot by poking behind his shoulder with a death glare, green glinting with homicidal intent. Kyle's self-esteem issues might tell him otherwise, but Kenny's always placed Kyle at the top of his List.

 _[I know I may come off quiet, I may come off shy! But I feel like talking, feel like dancing when I see this guy!]_

While Kenny looks at the picture, everyone else looks at him, gawking as if Burmese python sits around his shoulders. The sight they behold isn't nearly as iconic as the VMA performance of "I'm a Slave 4 U," but most of these guys live in a bubble, miss most of what makes the town's batshit crazy. Hesitant steps signal the bartender's return, confusion and alarm plastered on his face. He gingerly places the soda can in front of Kenny, then hurries to the far end of the bar. PC Principal peers over, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Sympathetic cobalt flits between Kenny and the picture.

 _[What's practical is logical! What the hell! Who cares? All I know is I'm so happy when you're dancing there!]_

" _Bruh_ ," Shock steeps his tone, stunned by similarity. Yet, in that word, Kenny also hears genuine understanding, knowledge from experience. PC Principal peers around, makes stern eye contact with each curious onlooker, rebukes their prying gazes. Slowly, the patrons resume their usual activities, and PC Principal turns back to Kenny. He points to Kyle, "He's not a co-worker, right? You two aren't in an unequal power dynamic?"

 _[I'm a—_ _ **slaaaave**_ _for_ _ **yooooou**_ _!]_

"Nope, nothin' like that," Kenny raises his voice, talks over the problematic lyrics. As he cracks open the can, he wishes for a song with a little less controversial word choice. Her volume lowers, or he thinks it does, "Me 'n Kyle 're best friends. Been that way since, like, _forever_."

PC Principal bobs his head, watches Kenny take a sip, "And is he aware that you have feelings for him?"

Carbonated bubbles pop-pop-pop on his tongue, but the high-fructose corn syrup isn't sweet as it should be. Kenny swallows, then sighs, "Kyle's _real_ smart. Smartest person I know, T-B-H. I kinda just assumed he _figured it out_ without me, y'know, needin' to _tell 'im_. And 'cause he never _said_ anything about it, I didn't either…"

"You've never fully disclosed the nature of your feelings, and you've never asked for verbal confirmation regarding his awareness," In the most politically correct manner, he calls Kenny a little bitch, "Is that correct?"

"Yeah…" He considers the insult fair, "Guess I put off talkin' about it for too long, 'cause I've been a walking Vegas residency for a lil' over a week now and I know it's 'cause of me keepin' my mouth shut."

"One of the biggest problems in society today is that individuals socialised as men are discouraged from openly discussing their emotions," God, being PC must be exhausting, "Are you comfortable telling me why you haven't been able to convey your emotions?"

The phone screen dims from inactivity, darkening their faces. Kenny's touch enlivens the image, restores him and Kyle to full brightness. All the lonely hours echo, his heart aching, missing his voice, his laugh, his smile, "I made up plenty of reasons why I couldn't. Didn't wanna make a whole thing outta me liking him. Didn't wanna make 'im feel like he was obligated to like me how I like him. Didn't wanna make shit weird between us if he didn't wanna suck my cock or whatever."

[ _Sometimes I run! Sometimes I hide! Sometimes I'm scared of you!_ ]

"It woulda fuckin' _killed_ me if he felt pressured or put off 'cause of me. I mean, we've shared classes since preschool 'n had sleepovers at each other's houses."

[ _But all I really want is to hold you tight! Treat you right!_ ]

"He snuck me into camp with him once so I wouldn't feel all alone. I taught 'im how to play Magic 'n helped build his first deck. We've been through a lotta hell but s'always been _together_."

[ _Be with you daaaaaay and niiiiight!_ ]

"I didn't want us to _not_ be together, y'know? Then this crap started 'n freaked me out 'n it took up 'til yesterday to realise I've been boning myself since day one and I just…"

[ _Baby, all I need is time!_ ]

"Hope I'm not gonna hurt him…" Kenny trails off, thinks of the damage he's already done, ditching him, avoiding him, lying to him. After Nintendo slapped him with its typical fuckery, Kyle was pretty pissed, but he got over it, because it wasn't a big deal. What about after Kenny quits ghosting him and shows up on his door, tells him all about the super gay feelings he's had since _forever_? He takes another sip, but all twenty-three flavours taste flat.

"Seems to me like you've put a lot of thought into a scenario in which Kyle responds negatively to your emotions," Pretentious vocabulary aside, he speaks thoughtfully, a refreshing change from the usual outrage his ilk thrive on, "Have you considered him reciprocating?"

"When I wanna get off," Kenny blurts out, mind flooding with fantasies past, all his indulgences of Kyle returning his love with a triple-X rating. He looks around, scouring for a mob of retribution, but nobody cares. At least these guys aren't so hypocritical they'd count masturbating a punishable offense, "'Side from that, though… not a lot."

"Why?" He asks a simple question, hands him a loaded gun.

"Because I'm fifth generation _white trash_ ," Why doesn't he think it'd work? "My big money comes from odd jobs 'n competitive _CoD_ ," Because why would Kyle bother with him? "My two talents are mashing buttons on a controller 'n earning a rep of people wantin' to _if you seek Amy_ ," Why would he lower his standards? "Yeah, Kyle can prob'ly be with anyone," Why would he go for a charity case like him? "The fuck do I have that'd make me so special he likes _me_ like I like _him_?"

"I don't have an answer for that," He leans back, raises his brows, "But I'm sure _he_ does."

Wow, Kenny can't believe what he's witnessing, someone PC making actual _sense_. A part of him feels _dirty_ admitting him, ashamed even. Kenny's never posed the question, so Kyle's never answered; if Kenny asks, he will, and he'll be _honest_. Kyle hates when people bullshit him, so he doesn't do it to others, especially doesn't do it to friends. He values sincerity and, although his candour can inflict blunt force trauma, he speaks his mind, clearly and genuinely. Kenny hasn't trusted him, trusted how he'd reply, too busy dwelling on nightmare outcomes, dismissing positives as pipe dreams. He didn't think Kyle could handle his truth, but he never asked to prove otherwise.

He guzzles down more soda, wonders why his brain treats this as new information. This is all basic, the kind of crap taught in kindergarten, yet Kenny forgot the fundamentals, played dumb and made an ass out of himself. Classic McCormick if he's ever heard it, though self-deprecation won't do any good. He slams the aluminium on the counter, and breathes out.

"So, what about…" Kenny taps on his temple, "Like, if this goes off when I'm tellin' 'im, do I go ' _Oops, I did it again!_ ' 'n talk through it or…?"

"When I was experiencing an issue similar to yours, taking ownership of my feelings and their impact on others enabled me to communicate," Can't he talk like a normal person? "If you want things to work out, you need to acknowledge who it concerns, address it together, and accept any resulting consequence."

"So, I just gotta talk to him, and the problem'll solve itself?" The simplicity mocks him.

"The music vocalises what you refuse to verbalise," He pounds a fist to his chest, "If you take responsibility and express yourself, you won't have an issue."

Well, _Britney_ won't be. There's still Kyle. Doubt creeps into his voice, Kenny lowering his gaze, "'Cept for how he reacts…"

PC Principal leans closer, limited by his perception of personal space. He remains at a respectful distance, boundaries intact, and levels with him:

"The overall circumstances of your situation are significantly different from mine," His words strain, "You have a real opportunity to be together," He coughs, keeps himself from choking up "And I'm really hoping the two of you will discuss your feelings towards each other thoroughly and can, potentially, establish a consensual romantic and/or sexual relationship."

The bar's mood shifts, aggression diffusing, discourse softening. Kenny glances around, hordes of bros staring at him again, their eyes warm, some welling with tears. Stiff judgement melts into overwhelming support, everyone touched by Kenny and his stunning bravery. The collective accepts him, partial to his struggles, extending him non-gender-exclusive comradery. Somehow, this fuzzy vibe is even _more_ discomforting.

He looks to PC Principal, catches his reflection in the shields. Confidence exudes from his navy tinged face, energies renewed, hope reinvigorated. His own certainty surprises him, though it might just be the sugar rushing to his head. An appreciative smile curves on Kenny's lips, "Thanks, dude."

PC Principal holds up a hand, waves his hand dismissively. Education is a duty, one that needs no recognition, or something like that. Kenny digs in his other pocket, fishes out his slim wallet. He worries, checking the blackboard for the price as he opens the cash sleeve, forgetting whether he has two tens or two fives. Before he can slide the bills out, the bartender rushes over.

"On the house," He nudges the can towards Kenny, a humble offering to the weary hero, before he embarks further on his arduous journey. Little does the bartender realise he is the true hero, saving Kenny a whole twelve dollars plus tax. Seriously, they charge more for a can than J-Mart does for a case. Where do the income inequality discussions stand on that capitalist robbery?

Kenny nods, shuts and stows his wallet. Phone in one hand, Dr Pep-er in the other, Kenny hops from his seat, walks to the exit. A few jocks bob their heads as he passes while a couple others sniffle quietly. He walks a little faster, pushing through the door. The waning afternoon sun guides him down the sidewalk to the safety of downtown. Inhaling his soda, Kenny silently vows to never set foot in Crunchy's Microbrewery for the rest of his life. He can't call it a day, though, not yet. There's one more thing to take care of.

He revives his phone, unlocks to the picture. Rather than linger on their faces, idly reminisce about the glory days of last week, he squints at the clock. Five-thirty-five, Kyle's shift should be over by now, unless his boss shoved him with extra hours. Kyle rarely slacks off on the job, but he bends his work ethic for unpaid overtime. He's only a model employee when it helps pay for graduate school applications. Kenny swipes out of the gallery, opens his messages, and finds Kyle's log.

A grey bubble holds the most recent text, sent the day after he bailed. It scared him when he first received it: _when youre ready we should talk_.

Kenny doesn't fully know what Kyle expected when he wrote that, whether he knew Kenny wouldn't respond, whether he hoped Kenny would. The timestamp attest to Kyle's restraint, listening to Karen and giving Kenny space. Only Kyle's brain never shuts off, every minute between that text and now an extended hell of anxiety and worry. Kenny can't give those moments back, but he can stop more from happening.

 **Kenny**  
 _hey im done being a cuckhead u still wanna talk?_

He waits for about a minute, eyes glued to the phone. Finally, he sees the ellipses pulsating, then morph into words.

 **Kyle**  
 _yeah. you doing better?_

Cured is what he means.

 **Kenny**  
 _better enough to talk abt this_

The cure is just telling, right?

 **Kyle**  
 _in person?_

This started because he didn't tell him!

 **Kenny**  
 _yeah this is a lil big for a call_

And it's gotten worse because he hasn't seen him or talked to him or anything with him.

 **Kyle**  
 _i can drop by yours at 7ish?_

The music won't bother him if he says what he feels.

 **Kenny**  
 _perf_

That's it! Then this is all over!

 **Kyle**  
 _see you then_

Because Kyle will know everything!

Kenny stares at the final message, reads, rereads, re-rereads it. The reality sinks in gradually, its gravity and its magnitude. His fears stir in the back of his mind, calling him an idiot, claiming he's setting himself up for failure. And he might be, marching to his doom, arranging his own funeral. Or he might not. He might embarrass himself for a few minutes, look like a grade-a dork, then laugh about it later. He might make Kyle laugh, too, or smile, or sigh and roll his eyes. They've been through plenty of doomsdays and disasters with their friendship unscathed, is nothing compared to what they've already shouldered!

Besides, there are two types of people in the world, and Kenny is not among the ones that observe. He's a ringleader, a firecracker, a put-on-a-show kinda guy! He'll be in the centre of the ring, spotlight on him, and, hopefully, he won't break.


	5. Baby One More Time

In theory, putting a drunk in a cold shower sobers them up. In practice, the drunk gets wet and no less intoxicated. Kenny rarely associates showers with sobering experiences but, as soon as he got home, he needed one, a _long_ one. He couldn't walk around smelling like a liberal arts campus, especially with Kyle coming. So, for once, Kenny forsook his innate frugality, damned the water bill to hell, and let the unfiltered tap purge his skin for a whole twenty-six minutes. And, some five minutes in, as the lime-crushed nozzle sputtered out an uneven drizzle, Kenny did something he hadn't done in a while, something he didn't dare during the week, something unthinkable: he _sang_.

"' _Cause all I want, is what you want! And all you want is me!_ "

He scarcely realised the soft mumbles leaking from his lips, trying desperately to keep himself from dwelling, to keep himself distracted. But, as he lathered and rinsed with no-tears shampoo, Kenny felt his heart lift, lift, lift the more lyrics poured from his lips. His voice melded with the rhythm, and he felt comfortable, cleansed, _free_. Discount bar soap scrubbed away the grunge and grime as bopping dance melodies ebbed away the anxious daze. No more tension, no more terror, no more of those conflicting and scary emotions wrapped up in a frenzied ball. Once he screwed the faucet, dried off with a threadbare towel, Kenny felt sober, refreshed, _alive_.

" _Yeah, all I want, is what you want! And all I want is you!"_

Kenny can't tell if the music plays in or out of his head, and honestly doesn't care. He wants his songs back. He is _taking_ them _back_. They're _his_ , they've always been his, his relief and his comfort and his motherfucking _jam_. So he takes the crown of _Glory_ , bobbing along to the snaps and claps and soda can cracks, enjoys listening to Britney for the first time in too goddamn long. A thin film of condensation frames the mirror's corners, Kenny reflected in the circle wiped clean of fog. And he barely recognises himself, barely recognises his smile, stupid and giddy, an-ti-ci-pa-ting.

"' _Cause nobody should be alone if they don't have to be!"_

Sky blue beams like the brightest morning star, cold as fire, hot as ice, mind occupied with beats oh so nice. Body and beat synchronise, Kenny swaying to the tune, letting the music seep into his bones and saturate his blood. He's been thinking of this whole thing all wrong, thinking of everything _going_ wrong, instead of concentrating on what he has going _right_ , on what _can_ go _right_. He can control that, or some of it, enough of it. It _will_ be enough, he tells himself, because it's everything he's got. No matter what, Kyle will see that, whether he says yes, whether he says no, he'll see that. And he can't hold that against him, right?

" _Nobody should be alone if they don't have to be!"_

Everyone knows that a slather of water-soluble lubricant improves any sexy situation; not everyone knows that a squirt of the stuff works wonders for the hair. He squeezes a dribble onto his fingers, then runs a hand though blond. He ruffles and tousles locks of gold, maintaining a stylish mess, fashionable chaos. He scans over his clothes, plain but presentable picks, fresh out of the laundry, warm from the dryer. For all his experience, the hook-ups and the on-and-offs, Kenny can't remember when he ever prepared beyond popping in a breath mint or possibly spritzing Lysol under his pits, let alone like this. No wonder girls spend take so long in the bathroom.

" _Nobody should be alone if they don't have to be!"_

A part of him is still ridiculously freaking out, a rogue power cable sparking and spazzing in the back of his head. It zaps his heart, a jolt to his pulse, blood electrified as it courses through his veins. But the difference this time is he doesn't short-circuit, refuses to lie back and let the voltage fry his will to crispy cowardice. Instead, he channels those fritzing currents, strips away the fearful casing, and hot-wires that raw racing energy. Excited, he's excited, to see him, to tell him, to _trust_ him, to do what he should've done a damn long time ago.

" _Should be alone—"_

Because Kyle deserves the truth, not childish secrets and half-assed cover-ups. And Kenny trusts him, trusts that, no matter what he says, how he reacts, in the end they'll stick together. Doesn't matter what they term they use—best friends, boyfriends, some weird word for an undefined in-between—so long as they have each other…

 _ **KNOCK-KNOCK!**_

…They won't be alone.

" _If they don't have to be…"_

Even after his voice trails off, the words hover at his lips, hang in the air. He looks to his reflection, blinks—once, twice, once-twice—then realises he's wasting time gawking at his own dumb face. Kyle, knowingly or not, has waited long enough for this, and what kind of guy would Kenny be to invite him over just to make him wait around at the door? One last tease to his hair, then he darts out, strides long and steps hasty. He moves quick, so he doesn't fall back into pattern, hesitate and second guess until opportunity walks on by.

No, he won't make those same mistakes all over again, because he's confident, cool, in control. As he reaches for the handle, he reminds himself that empowerment is what Britney's all about. It's what drew him to her songs in the first place, because even the most saccharine and sappy melodies have that sense of validation. It's okay to feel, and it's okay to embrace it. It's okay to pine and yearn, and it's okay to admit it without any shame. It's okay to be bold and proud, and it's okay to be open and vulnerable. And it's okay to hope for bombastic love, even if things don't work out like they do in the movies. At least he can say he _tried_.

The hinges whine with the door's wide swing, but Kenny's too focused to let the pesky sound bother him. His gaze fixes on a floofy mop of crimson curls, on a sharp set of green eyes, on the one and only Kyle Broflovski. Somehow, seeing him feels like just yesterday, yet, at the same time, like a whole nine or ten eternities. Hyperbole aside, it has been a few days, and Kenny notices the exhaustion lurking, the inklings of violet under his eyes and the traces of red on his lips. Kyle hates admitting it, but he worries like his mother. Kenny wishes his caring didn't cost him so much.

"Hey," Alright, he doesn't want to come off strong at the start, but really? Just a _hey_? A measly freaking _**hey**_? How underwhelming.

Only Kyle doesn't mind or doesn't seem to. Kenny might be seeing what he wants to, but he swears Kyle relaxes, a little bit of tension fading from his face. When he blinks, the green looks brighter, grass gleaming with dew, brilliant and vivid and rich. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, because, for the moment, he's happy Kenny's fine. Then he'll remember how much of bitch Kenny's been and be mad again. Although he tries hiding it, Kenny hears the fatigue crawl into his voice, "So you're done being a cuckhead, huh?"

"Yeah, realised that wasn't my best look," As he speaks, he feels a grin curve his lips. Kenny might not know when he fell, but he's pretty sure this is what did him in. For all his barbs and rough edges, Kyle's _easy_ to talk to, fun to talk to. Sure, he talks more than some people like, but everything he says is loaded with thought and passion, his character stringing the sentences together, forming something Kenny can only describe as a joy to listen to. He takes a step to the side, "Now c'm'in unless ya wanna pay my heating bill."

An eye roll, a light snort, Kyle pairs contradictories without a second thought. In the same moment, he can find a joke lame and hilarious, judge and laugh simultaneously, a true creature of conflict. Yet, somehow, his complex paradoxes make sense, on some level Kenny quite articulate, because explaining it is hard, but feeling it is simple. Wine and cheese for the soul, but a lot less danger of mild lactose intolerance. Kyle breezes in, lingers by the coffee table while Kenny shuts the door. He bites his lip, pensive, except he encodes his expression. Kenny has a knack for reading people, but, when he wants to be, Kyle is impossible to decipher. After another few seconds, Kyle looks over, raises a brow, "Karen home?"

A reasonable question, because Kyle has manners and adheres to polite courtesy. Also a fair question, because last time he was here Karen played bodyguard and barred him from entry. Grudgingly, as he probably figured, but he understands the power of sibling survivalism. Of course, as soon as Kenny messaged her about his plan, Karen said she'd stay the night at Tricia's apartment, Kyle safe from sisterly coercion and Kenny guaranteed zero back-up. He really hopes he can thank her for that later. He puts on a simper, "Nah, big study-slumber party. Tonight's just you 'n me."

Kyle nods, words gradually registering. He picks them apart, meticulously analyses every letter and syllable, reassembles them and mulls the whole thing over. Painstakingly thorough, devoted to detail, yet somehow operating at a rapid-fire pace. A sigh slips out, Kyle reluctantly pointing towards his head, "And you know what's causing _this_?"

Right to the point, just like Kyle. Is this the best time to say it, or is there some lead-up protocol? He never paid much attention to romance movies, comedic or dramatic, too busy ripping on their translucent plots and heteronormative pandering. And all the gay ones either end in tragedy or border on pornography, so there goes using that as a base. Kenny shifts his weight from right leg to left, starts with simply _responding_ , "Y'know, think I finally do."

" _Me?"_

Kenny hears it on the echo, as it reverberates in his ears, sinks into his head. His eyes shut, open, stare. Now he wants to be read, everything inscribed in the green. Kyle used elementary school sleuthing and basic deductive theory, _No-Shit-Sherlock_ ed his way to the grand conclusion. Doesn't take a Hardly Boy to notice that, whenever Kyle spoke, the music got louder, whenever Kyle looked over, it got louder, whenever he _breathed_ , it got _louder_. But he only witnessed the confusion, the flurried fear, the shaken anxiety. _Pain_ , his eyes brim with pain, he thinks all he causes is _pain_. He couldn't be more wrong.

He needs to know. Now. Kenny takes a deep breath, _"Ky—"_

[ _ **BBH-NNH-NNH!**_ ]

One second—in just one second, those three piano notes announce one of history's most iconic songs. Britney's debut, "…Baby One More Time," singlehandedly defined a new era of pop, topping charts across the globe, swiftly becoming the one of the top selling singles of all time. Few can indulge in nineties nostalgia without citing that killer loneliness, that confessed belief, that yearning for a sign. Kenny's probably listened to that song close to a million times, addicted since he first saw the video on MTV, saw her dancing in that school girl outfit with her braided pigtails. In one second, she became his idol; but, in this second, she betrays him.

No. No, no, no, no, no! This _isn't_ supposed to happen—not when he _finally_ he has a _handle_ on this! _Shenanigans_! This shit is motherfucking shenanigans!

[ _Oh baby, baby! How was I sup-posed, to kno-oow?_ ]

Kyle shuts his eyes, shakes his head. Those bass range bangs confirm his every sneaking suspicion, proves definitively that he's the cause of the rhapsodic mayhem, the source of Kenny's symphonic suffering. He chews the inside of his cheek, brow furrowing as he does what he always does: blame himself. Much as he tries not to be a stereotype, his self-loathing always slinks up on him. He projects his pride outwardly, presents himself as confident, but Kenny knows Kyle is constantly at odds with that voice in his head, the one ripping him apart and tearing him down. Kenny would give anything to mute that part of Kyle's brain. In a harsh whisper, he breathes out, "I fucking knew it."

[ _That something wasn't right here!_ ]

" _Kyle_ ," Kenny raises his voice, up one octave, rivalling the steady percussion and wah guitars. He hears agitation creep into his tone, frustrated that the dial keeps turning up, up, up. _The music vocalises what you refuse to verbalise_ —yeah, fuck that PC crap. Spiritual guidance is only a thing in kung-fu films and the good Star Wars trilogy. Guess he'll need to be his own Obi-Wan and improvise, "You gotta listen to me a sec, 'kay?"

[ _Oh baby, baby! I shouldn't have let you go!_ ]

At first, Kyle doesn't look at him, fixated on the corn dish converted into an ashtray. He stares at the specks of grey ingrained between the bumpy ceramic kernels, green pensive yet panicked, that look people get when they tell themselves things are fine when they're anything but. His lips press into a tight line, then he lifts his gaze. When it comes to emotional matters, Kyle never quite nailed how to feign full composure, how to totally mask his emotions. With tart sourness sprinkled in, "Long as you don't _bail_ right after."

[ _And now you're out of sight, yeah!_ ]

Yeah, he's still pissed about that. Rightfully so, Kenny reckons, however Kyle has a nasty habit of being particularly _difficult_ when his stubbornness gets the better of him. Of course, that biting resolve had a hand in stealing his heart, so it must be one of those _'what you see is what you get_ ' situations. Kenny's fine taking him as he is, just a little less fine with Kyle shoving him back. He swallows, draws a half-smile on his face. Maybe it looks rakish and cocky, maybe it looks awkward and stupid; he only does it to hide the twitches teasing and tormenting his facial muscles, "Kyle, I fucked up. Haven't been straight with ya. For a while now. And I'm sorry."

[ _Show me! How you want it to be!_ ]

"Yeah, I know," The words alone are dismissive, but Kenny hears the rest of his thought in their echoes. _Yeah, I know_ , he says. _You apologise even when it isn't your fault_ , his tone adds. Usually, Kenny's good at reading people, but Kyle's a puzzle, too many conflicting emotions overlaying one another. His expression is encoded so Kenny cannot decipher him, likely because Kyle can't quite decide how to feel himself, annoyed or angry or upset, at Kenny or himself or Britney Jean Spears. He raises a brow, holds his expectant stare.

[ _Tell me, baby! 'Cause I need to know now! Oh, be-ca-ause!_ ]

Well he can't just launch right into it, not when Kyle's on a different page. He assumes this whole meeting is about his condition—which it is, sort of. He only knows the superficial, the effects. Kenny needs to frame the situation, give him background and context, give his ass a little padding protection before pressing the big red destruct button. That isn't stalling, is it? "Ya see…"

[ _My loneliness is killing me! (And I!)_ ]

"This is all in my head," There are few things more retarded than stating the obvious, Kenny thinks. Soon as it slips out, he grinds his teeth, grin faltering. No, he can't get caught up on these things, stumble and trip until he bows out. He sees a flicker in Kyle's eyes— _no shit_ —and steels himself, because he needs all the strength he can muster, "Like, _started_ there 'cause—"

[ _I must confess, I still believe! (Still believe!)_ ]

"There was some shit I _really_ didn't wanna talk about," The chorus keeps matching his volume, but he tries not to think about it, "Like _at all_."

[ _When I'm not with you, I lose my mind!_ ]

"And kinda-sorta- _especially_ didn't wanna talk 'bout with _you_ ," Fighting pent-up repression is an uphill battle, even when armed with fresh expression, "Which is why this 's happening."

[ _Give me a siiiiign!_ ]

"And—"

[ _Hit me baby one more time!_ ]

" _Kenny,"_ He cuts him off, speaks over the second verse's start. Britney sings about her reason for breathing, and Kyle inhales, deep and sharp. He exhales through his nose, a slow and steady release, as grasps and gropes, collects himself. A blink, and the green glints, flash like a camera's shutter. It's blinds Kenny, so he can't tell what he's feeling, "If you hate me, just _say it_."

Oh, that's _not_ the way he planned this.

" _Dude_ ," Kenny knows how he wants it to be, but Kyle doesn't, and he's _wired_. Emotions override logic and reason, his frantic brain filling gaps with his worst fears, connecting dots until they reflect his worries' prediction. Gingerly, Kenny takes a step forward, lifts his hands in reassurance, "I couldn't hate ya if I _tried_. You _know_ that."

"I know you _hate_ this," His strained timbre summons the chorus, his swaying wavers rallying them. The sentence passes his lips incomplete, the remainder etched in his eyes: _And I know that I'm causing this, so you should hate me, too_. Kyle misunderstands, because that's what the song is about, a misunderstanding, "You wanted it to _stop_ so you _ditched_ me and _ghosted_ me like a goddamn _Tinder hookup_."

"Listen—" Kenny tries talking, but Kyle is a torrent. Even with the _oh-baby-baby_ 's filling the air, he's a waterfall of words, crashing and splashing and thrash, thrash, thrashing. Not even Britney's rising notes can blast over him, no matter how high the volume climbs. Nothing is more deafening than Kyle when he yells, when he blurts out something he really means:

" _Only it hurts a whole lot fucking more when it's coming from the guy you actually like!"_

[ _ **Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know?**_ ]

Something he never expected enter his ears, and, with the wind's gusting swooshes, Kenny goes numb. His heartbeat flutters, to piano keys' interlude, engulfed in the lulling rhythm, in Kyle's resonating words. _The guy he actually likes_ , because the others were distractions, like the playlists Kenny puts on repeat, because the emotions were driving him crazy, like the world's ambient noise, because he never told Kenny, like Kenny never told him. His chest feels like teddy bear stuffing, soft and fuzzy, only some of that fluff floats up his throat, coats his tongue cotton.

Once Kyle realises what he said—loud and aloud—his eyes widen, bulge so much they might pop from their sockets. A fevered blush pools under his cheeks, the type of red-hot burning that exposes lovesick's delirium. Regret saturates the green, a swarm of panic descending upon him, cursing his brash attitude and his brazen impulses and his desperate _crush_. Because Kyle never wanted him to know, because he never thought Kenny would feel the same way. And, he still doesn't, or he wouldn't eye up the exit, wouldn't angle towards the door, wouldn't force down a gulp.

[ _Oh, pretty baby, I shouldn't have let you go…_ ]

His head might be broadcasting, but Kenny isn't the one playing the song; Kyle hijacked his signal, cranked the volume to max, because this time his emotions are the ones on the waves. Perhaps Kyle always had a hand on the dial, since that first instance that night. This must be what happens when two hearts are attuned, although, when most people say that kind of shit, they only mean it figuratively. But Kenny's fine to tell him, literally, _"Kyle—"_

[ _I must_ _ **confess!**_ ]

" _Goddammit,"_ He isn't listening, not even a little bit, too engrossed in his own turbulent thoughts. Kyle rarely shows his vulnerable side, because, more than anything, he hates being called weak. Except there's nothing weak about having a heart, even when one that pangs and aches, lusts and yearns. Green eyes evade, and Kyle, taking notes from Kenny's earlier stunts, guns for the quickest way out.

[ _That my_ _ **loneliness!**_ ]

" _Hey!"_ Kenny tries cutting him off, using an arm as a roadblock. His effort is fruitless, Kyle easily ducking under, employing the same skilful manoeuvres that thwarted rival basketball teams back in high school. Kyle moves quick, but Kenny has longer legs, right on his heels, _"Stop!"_

[ _ **Is killing me noooooow!**_ ]

"I'm _tired_ ," Kyle knows it's a half-assed excuse, would probably call himself out in any other situation. He just doesn't have a better one, doesn't have the energy to make-up a better one, not whilst backed against a corner. Or, more accurately, between an inward swinging door and Kenny McCormick, "Forget it."

[ _Don't you_ _ **know**_ _I still_ _ **believe**_ _?_ ]

"Listen to me!" He says, though he knows Kyle won't. Right now, Kyle is only listening to the doubts and the anxieties and the bullshit white noise. They bog him down and muffle his ears, ignoring Britney's pleas despite their ear-splitting heights. Kenny comes to one simpler conclusion.

[ _That you will_ _ **be here!**_ ]

"I said forget it!" Kyle Broflovski is completely and utterly _oblivious._

[ _And_ _ **give me a siiiiign!**_ ]

So oblivious that he's hurting, assuming his love unrequited, longing in solitude. He's like the pining lament of a '90s pop dream, except Kyle never got into the camp and queer idol craze. He prefers hard rock and hip hop, not bubblegum beats, tolerates the genre without paying much mind. No, Kyle won't listen to Britney.

[ _ **Hit me baby one more time!**_ ]

Or maybe he will, if Kenny makes him.

" _My loneliness is killing me!"_

Her music is his heart, her lyrics are his feelings; is there that much of a difference if Kenny sings instead?

" _AND I!_ "

Kyle hears Kenny's voice, freezes mid-step. Confusing fast-tracks to confounding, because love rarely makes sense, but this makes _no_ sense. Even for _their_ standards. He whips around, expression riddled with shock. His eyes bore into the blue, searching for an answer, one that adheres to the falsehoods he's accepted as cruel reality.

" _I must confess, I still believe!"_

Crazy, he must think Kenny is totally batshit crazy. This entire ordeal scrambled his brains, and he's finally losing his last handful of marbles. Well, Kenny thinks that's what he's thinking, because Kenny would think the same thing in his shoes. Hell, _he_ isn't fully convinced he's _not_ totally batshit crazy.

" _Still believe!"_

It's silly. It's mushy. It's horrendously cliché.

" _When I'm not with you I lose my mind!"_

Most love confessions are, but proclaiming it in song?

" _Give me a siiiign!"_

That's just plain cheesy.

[ _Hit me baby one more time!_ ]

The final reprise is spoken right from the soul, every syllable loaded with passion so pure. A lot of covers make the ending depressing, their notes low and whiny. They don't understand the sentiment. Those lines' beauty comes from the hope steeped in them, the dream of love kindled anew, from glowing embers to lively flame.

" _I must_ _ **confess**_ _, that my_ _ **loneliness**_ _, is killing me_ _ **nooow**_ _…"_

Emotion pours from his mouth, rolls smoothly off his tongue. His chest lurches, his heart pounds, his blood burns. Yet, Kenny feels better, warmer, _liberated_. Singing what he feels is about the same as saying it, still counts as vocalising or verbalising or whatever the PC jargon is. He feels a smile curve his lips, unburdened at last, finally being truthful, to Kyle, to himself.

" _Don't you_ _ **know**_ _I_ _ **still believe?**_ _"_

He can't tell if Kyle's piecing it together, the green flooded with too many tints and shades, reflecting the entire spectrum of feeling, those with and without names. People like saying how actions speak louder, although Kenny doubts those people ever ran into any weird shit like this. However, Kyle likes action, because it reinforces meaning, because it reassures. Kenny lifts a hand, gently cups Kyle's cheek. He can't remember the last time he's felt skin so hot.

" _That you will be here…"_

He keeps their eyes locked, refuses to blink, to give Kyle a chance to second-guess what he sees. The two of them have been alone, because they only saw what they feared, not what they felt. They shouldn't keep making that same mistake, shouldn't let their loneliness be their miserable end. They can change that, change that in a moment, change that now.

" _And give me a siiiiign…"_

Thumb brushes over bone, and Kenny wonders if he's going too far, so overexcited he waded too deep. All actions have consequences, and sometimes the noblest efforts have the shittiest outcomes. Circumstances aside, he has no clue exactly how Kyle will react, whether it will be good, be bad, be something in between. He knows he'll have to accept it, though he isn't sure he's prepared. At the climax, the closing title drop, Kenny shuts his eyes, and braces.

" _ **HIT ME BABY ONE MORE TIME!**_ **"**

He expects a sock to the jaw, a left hook that'll knock a tooth out or loosen a few. Or perhaps a good punch to the nose, knuckles cracking the bridge or splintering the bone. Deep crimson spurting and spewing from somewhere, or muscle ligaments bruised the darkest violet, he expects something along those lines. A hit, he figures Kyle will hit him hard, with a _fist_ or a _kick_. Not with his lips.

Kenny never imagined a kiss like this, Kyle dragging him down by the collar, their mouths mashing together, rough and uncoordinated and clumsy. Reminds him of third grade, when they were too young to care about Ookie Mouth's unveiled sexual implications, simply frustrated at its apparent difficulty. Kenny still remembers the thick layers of slobber that slathered their faces, how they both thought it was gross, but not nearly as gross as kissing a girl. His third-grade self was an idiot, because kissing Kyle might sloppy and messy, but he's never wanted anything else more than that taste, of double-shot espresso and kettle cooked chips, of wintergreen Altoids and arctic fresh Crest, of spit and breath and tongue. Without a melody keeping time, he loses track of the moments, though he savours every single one.

Eventually, they break apart, lungs starved of oxygen, heads dizzy and airless. Then, Kenny notices the silence around them, the tranquil lack of musical accompaniment, the blissful absence of background sounds. All he hears is him and Kyle, panting and heaving, in- and exhales harmonised. When Kenny opens his eyes, green greets him, clear and brilliant. Kyle licks the corner of his lips, and, chuckles mingling with words, "That has to be the _gayest_ thing you've ever done."

Kenny snorts, and they both burst out laughing. Kyle eases his hold on Kenny's shirt, casually leans into his caress. Kyle's grin grows, and, staring at that smile, Kenny's pulse quickens. He traces Kyle's jawline, cocks his head to the side, "Y'know, I can think of a few _gayer_ things."

A nod, and Kyle leans forward, requests another kiss. Kenny happily obliges with one, two, three pecks, just to make sure. He relishes the low hum of approval, basks in the _not-that-innocent_ glint shining in the green, adores Kyle's thrumming tone as he asks, "Anything _we_ can do?"

Their free hands lazily drift closer, until their tips tap against each other. Kenny intertwines their fingers, presses palm to palm. He steadies his gaze, _"You wanna go?"_

Another nod, and Kyle tightens his grip, clasps their hands together, _"All the way."_

Kenny smirks, seizes his lips again. After all that, he might just make Kyle a Britney fan yet.

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much for supporting this silly (mis)adventure! Hope you enjoyed! See you on the next story!


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